


Neumond Am Montag

by Pink_and_Velvet



Category: Duran Duran, Duran Duran (Music Videos)
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Anal Sex, Bartering, Bittersweet, Canon-Typical Violence, Cheating, Cold War, Crimes & Criminals, Doomed Relationship, Double Cross, East Berlin, English and German Fusion, F/M, Falling In Love, Fighting, Fireworks, Freedom Fighters, Full Moon, GDR, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Infidelity, Its a sin, LGBTQ Themes, La Luna - Freeform, Love at First Sight, M/M, MI6 Agents, Men Crying, Minor Violence, New Moon On Monday, Past Pain, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prisoner of War, Public Relations, Revolution, Self-Esteem Issues, Singing, Sparklers, Trade Offs, men kissing, music video, pirate radio, serenades
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:34:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 22,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29248857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: Someday that wall will fall. Someday that regime will fall. SomedayThe Ragged Tigerswill all walk across into the West as free men. Today is not that day.ALTERNATE UNIVERSE: A British spy undercover, in occupied Eastern block territory.Chapter updates expected each Monday and Thursday.
Relationships: Simon Le Bon/John Taylor (Duran Duran), Simon Le Bon/Renée Simonsen, Simon Le Bon/Yasmin Le Bon
Comments: 50
Kudos: 26





	1. Voices In Your Body Coming Through, On The Radio

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the New Moon On Monday video, taking place in East Berlin as opposed to France. I gave the infamous waffly, confusing and frustrating video plot. And what a plot this is. 
> 
> This is NOT a crazy amount of fireworks, sparklers, handing out leaflets and pirating radio... it’s much deeper, and perhaps the most emotional and heart tugging story of mine so far outside of my Hold Tight verse.
> 
> This fic contains a mash up of both English and German language. Usually in italics, the German is often reiterated or explained by Simon right after another character has used it. Also, there is purposeful mispronunciation, confusion and incorrect grammar throughout to show how English is not the first language of every character here; which will improve over time.
> 
> WARNINGS: For canon typical/historical violence, minor physical violence, implied self harm, LGBTQ slurs, canon typical homophobia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter will have a lyric in its title, Duran or no, from a song to help set the scene. 
> 
> Chapter title taken from Duran Duran’s ‘Union Of The Snake.’

_New Years Day, January 1984_

A man. Trench coat. Trilby hat. Always watching.

Slinking into the back of the grand theatre, he inhaled a shaky breath as he took his seat. He prayed that he was high enough to not be noticed, that he didn’t attract any unwanted attention by simply being there. He was an understudy, he was working. He was paying attention, topaz eyes forcing themselves up and onto the scene before him.

The stage was set, rehearsals in full swing.

Casting a glance around, the agent noted he was not alone. At least, not as alone as he had hoped to be. A blonde woman with piercing blue eyes had caught him, pulling his focus. She was rather beautiful, as though her face belonged on a glossy magazine cover in the free world. Where the free world could see her shine.

A man. Trench coat. Trilby hat. Always watching.

The theatre was teeming with them. They were always listening, always watching. Dressed in civilian clothes, doing civilian chores. Making extra effort to embrace their ordinary world, a mundane life only bought to light by a gunshot. Ratting out, turning somebody in.

“Was denken Sie über Brecht?” An icy hand grasped his shoulder; dark, gravely, voice brushing the diamond in Simon’s ear.

Snitches were everywhere and Simon, much to his dismay, was a sitting duck lying in the presumed Stasi officer’s line of fire. Simon stiffened, heart thudding wild in his chest and shoulder blazing under the man’s cruel touch. He straightened up, reminding himself to breathe. To keep calm, to keep quiet. To _comply_.

“Was?” He beckoned; voice lost to the wind.

The hand clamped down on his leather jacket harder, material creaking under the tight grip. The agent swallowed thickly, turning his head ever so slightly. Simon’s beady blues locked on a burning brown, silently ordering him up to standing.

“Ich habe Sie gefragt, was denken Sie über Brecht?” The man repeated, voice thicker than before, punctuating each syllable hard.

Simon’s eyes didn’t waver from the man. _Undercover_ _surely,_ he was reminded. He followed a gloved hand, motioning to the general direction of the stage. It clicked to him then, Bertolt Brecht had long since written the play in motion before him. How could he have forgotten this notorious German play-write?

He simply shrugged, beady eyes following that of the man before him. The man before him, who was laying out a hand.

“Unterlagen, mein Herr.”

_Documents –_ of course he understood that word. Simon ruffled about his pockets, pawing for the papers that suddenly were burning a hole through his leathers. He presented them, with a shaky breath, as they were eyed over. Taken in, absorbed to the full. When convinced, a hand was held out for Simon to grab. Though when he did, his papers were seemingly snatched back from him, causing the agent to fume. Simon swallowed down a shout, knowing what was coming next.

“English.” Thankfully, the shadowy figure reverted to his mother tongue. “What must you be here for?”

Simon rattled off the familiar and never tired VISA monologue. He was an actor, in the city with a valid VISA. He checked out.

Apparently, the man before him didn’t think so.

A silent order beckoned Simon to follow, leaving the theatre rehearsal behind. His paperwork lay lifeless, riddled with secrets and a possible end to his life, in anything but safe hands. Safe, in their heated moment.

Simon was being lured in by this statuesque man’s ungodly pull. His domineering aura, how his trench coat wafted slightly and how his boots creaked with every step he took. How every step echoed, pacing quickly through the back of the theatre. Simon remained quiet, trying to take in his surroundings. It was nothing much, though backstage was teeming with life. Actors and actresses were talking, rehearsing, dashing about gloomy corridor after corridor. Stage-hands were working, enticed by their work; not batting Simon or the man a single glance.

The figure before him paused, negotiating an ascending staircase. This too gave Simon pause, catching a body slightly out of sight. Quickly whirling around, his gaze broke through to an office window. A man sat solitary at his desk, with jay black hair and a warning in his chocolate eyes. This man nodded once, and before Simon could respond, he was being ushered up those stairs.

**_It’s gonna race, gonna break._ **

Rounding another corner, a soft voice echoed. A song, almost, those words were lyrical and yet they were missing something. A track to accompany them, to save them; to keep them singing.

**_Gonna move up to the borderline._ **

Before Simon had chance to ponder it, he was shoved straight through an open door. It was slammed shut behind him. Bolted. He cursed inwardly, staring at his shoes.

He had been led to what appeared to be an unused dressing room. The lights were off, he debated flicking the switch. The room was eerie, though another body was perched before him. Mocking him, beckoning him to speak. Simon knew the game: he only spoke when spoken too. She would have to make the first move. She, who had been eyeing him back in the theatre, with topaz eyes as betraying as his own could be. Simply sat there, basking in the shadows.

“ _Hinsetzen_ , Le Bon. Wir müssen reden.”


	2. Are You Aware, You’re Being Illegal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Arcadia’s ‘Election Day.’
> 
> This fic would be incomplete without it.

Simon’s head shot up; the shadowy figure was coming closer. Her voice was firm, instinctive. Too intuitive. He remained still, fighting to bring his gaze up. She continued, voice blearing into a haze of jumbled sounds and syllables, a language he couldn’t understand. There was a sigh, a scoff, a manicured hand being held out.

“Sprechen Sie Deutsch? Englisch oder…?”

Simon nodded, gaze falling to his feet again.

“ _Fertig!_ Alright. For you, I shall speak English. Now sit.” She motioned to the large interrogation table, with two chairs. She had seemingly gone through the trouble of pulling out his chair, in the hopes of making Simon feel more at home.

With a shaky breath, he slid into the rickety chair.

“I shall make this quick. I know who you are, and what you want.” She began, voice tickling his ear. Crouching down, she inhaled a deep pull of her cigarette before releasing it into the agent’s face, making Simon shiver. “They be planning something. Something you can help... _deter_.”

Simon swallowed thickly, unable to register her words. Though, he was undoubtedly intrigued. “And why would I help you, ma’am?”

“Save it till the morning after.” She took another drag, this time aiming it away from him. “I know you and your whereabouts, Le Bon. You say you ist here für deine Arbeit, with _work_ permits… for was? Work, you do not specify. An ‘actor’… _ha!_ ” She spat, alarm bells filling his mind. “If you do comply not, then _they_ will be forced to take you. And I think we both know, that you will not be—erm, how you say, going _down_ without a fight.”

“… A fight?”

Her presence was strong at his side. Persistent, domineering. Coming to rest before him, she leant atop the dingy table, waggling a photograph before his flushing face. One that had been well savoured and preserved. Laminated.

“A _fight_.” She stubbed out her cigarette.

She simply tossed the photograph at Simon, who tried to take in every precious detail before it was ripped back from his sights. The first photograph simply depicted him leaving a shady place he should’ve seen the back of, with a man he couldn’t name. The second, another seedy bar with another seedy face. The third, Simon was standing stark and proud, another nameless face at his side.

“I know who you are, Le Bon. We all haben— erm, have _secrets,_ and those files,” She again dangled his photographs before him, lips quirking up. “All those men you had been with… innocently. Will be found, will be _taken_. Prosecuted. Though, I am sure you knew that already.”

Simon couldn’t deny those photographs. Whoever this woman was, had enough evidence against him to lock him up. Of previous rebellion attempts, of foiled plots and attempt at revolution. Of a British spy, having been sent here to bring down yet another brewing revolt.

Of the men he had come to learn more… _intimately,_ along the way. Agents, targets, leads... dispensables.

_Lovers._

“You know how it goes.” She began, again coming to lie before him atop of the table. Her crystal blue eyes glimmered darkly, her pinky lips pouting in distaste. “Personally, I have nothing against your type. You _gleich_ … oh, what is the word?”

Simon growled, “A homo? Poofter? Degenerate? Queer? Because I’ll have you know, I go for both. Suck on that.”

_It’s a sin._

She scoffed, as the sly smirk overtook the shadows painting her darkened face, adding a much needed light.

“A _rebel_.”

Sensing that he wasn’t leaving any time soon, Simon decided to hear the woman out. Though he wondered constantly why she was lying atop of the table before him, face mere inches from his own. Whether she would try make a move on him, which too would be a losing battle. When she had been standing, he noted that she simply wore a black dress shirt which hung loose off one shoulder, a thick studded belt, leather leggings and knee high leather boots. She had golden hair which flowed freely, light makeup, trying to mask the devil in her seemingly angelic guise.

Though this woman’s eyes glimmered like no angel. She was dangerous, ruthless, holding back her rain. He could sense it, his intuition always strong. She wanted information; information Simon could almost be willing to trade for those photographs. If indeed, he could find out anything about—

“La Luna, La Luna.” She continued, drawing Simon’s focus. “French sounding name, misleading. They is a youth revolt group, something like _Der Weiße Rose,_ four decades prior.”

“The White Rose?” Simon repeated, her words beginning to sink in.

“Mit Sophie Scholl, yes. Surely you recognise the name?” Simon nodded. She hummed her agreement. “Peaceful protesters, handing out leaflets, though they… still a thorn in government sides.”

“La… Luna?” Simon parroted, unsure.

The woman simply nodded. “This group is not armed with guns or machinery; they are armed with explosives. Do not get me wrong, they are a _peaceful_ group, however…” The stern, the taut, in her voice began to falter. Simon straightened up, questioning her occasional grammar mistakes, training his bleary gaze over that of the woman. “The Stasi they… they know about them. They took my… my partner. Who worked with them, who was coming for me.”

With a scoff, “Don’t you have anybody else to bother with all this?”

“Please Simon. They would get myself over the border, _out_ of Berlin.” His eyes bugged wide; how did she know his name?

“What, they, uh, they… plan to smuggle you across in the Trabant car boot?” He chuckled, waving her off. “Not very original, ma’am.”

“And yet it work… as do the underground tunnels.” A fire crossed her eyes, a flame Simon did not want to ignite further. “Please. _I’ll do what you want, running wild_.”

Any sense of self immediately fled him. There was a vulnerability here, beginning to outweigh the hostility of before. She was calling out to him, in her own perverted siren song. And Simon, unfortunately for him, had information he could trade. If she, whoever she was, was ready to make that trade.

“Tell me, what do you want from me?”

She rose off one arm, now sitting upright before Simon. Her long and lean legs dangled off the edge of the table, he noted her stiletto heel was ever so close to his thigh. Ever so close to _stabbing_ his thigh.

“You know my partner. You know who they taken.”

“ _They took._ Well, how can I bloody help you if you won’t tell me my colleague’s damn na—”

“— _Yasmin_.” She growled, tears brimming in her sapphire eyes.

Simon’s heart plummeted in his chest.

_Yasmin._

“No… n-no…”

A single, lonesome tear rolled down her cheek. Passing her plum blush, dropping atop of her thigh. 

“No!”

_Yasmin._

“Yassie?” Simon breathed, feeling ever so choked. He blinked rapid, determined to stifle a tear. “No… no, they told me… they told me she was in the West. That she _made_ it.”

“They…” She shook her fallen fringe from her face. “Simon, are you truly foolish enough in order to believed that?”

The woman before him was on his side. Contrary to what he may have thought. There were agents here working with him, against him, unwillingly for him. And she, only now had it crossed his mind, was a friendly. She was an _ally._

So is— _was_ Yasmin. He’ll likely never see his fellow agent again.

“Is she alive?” The dreaded question saw Simon’s hackles raise, his nostrils flare.

“Simon, please. Yasmin is in possession of the state, for how much longer… I do not know.” Her vocal was growing shaky, tears threatening to fall beyond her control.

“Is she _alive?!_ ” Simon screamed, blood beginning to boil.

“Last I heard. In die Gefängniszelle.” The woman before him nodded once. If Simon blinked, he would have missed it. “Her _prison_ cell.”

The pieces were falling into place much faster now, now his adrenaline was running wild. Yasmin was an agent: she had been _caught_. Searching for the undeniable truth. And the man who had turned her in, was torturing her now, was just a fool.

Simon sprang into action, needing to hit something. Hit someone. He spiralled back over to the woman, who was sweeping away her tears with the back of her hand. With a sigh, he tossed the chair instead; vile emotions bleeding from him almost instantly. Simon came to kneel before her, panting slightly, offering her a hanky.

“Why are you crying, ma’am?”

“Sure?” She simply posed, eyeing the forged documents he held out.

“Absolutely. Dry those tears.” Or valid paperwork; he didn’t know which was which. They were useless to him now. “You think, you failed her, don’t you?” Those eyes were trying too hard to glisten. To hope, to find a helping hand. Simon asked one more time, demanding an answer. She needed to spill. “I’m sure you didn’t, I know that Yassie knows that. Just tell me, what do _I_ need to do. To get to Yasmin, to get her back.”

The woman choked down her final tears, Simon watched her switch back to business mode, she was ready to negotiate her next deal now her moment of weakness was drawing to a close.

“Go to the Platternfirma on Alexanderplazt. At the record shop, ask for John Taylor. He’ll tell you everything, if… uh, if you... _Sheiße_.”

“If?”

“If,” She coughed. “You’re willing, to let John _in_.”

“In?”

She sighed, head dropping. “He is not an easy man to get too. No Freiheit—sorry, _freedom_ fighters are. He needs to trust you. You need to trust him.” Simon nodded, as her voice again grew steady, rattling off the orders. “A man like him, be searching for _ally._ Think you can be that ally, Le Bon?”

His head shot up, unable to process her words. He deftly avoided her question, steering his briefing back to her. He needed a name. He needed his intel. “You know this ‘John’, then?” Avoiding the question wasn’t so easy as Simon would’ve thought. Her face appeared to grow hot, as though she was embarrassed to nod. “You two have history?”

“Call it… a history waiting to be schreib— _scribed_. That man he, you know, he’s on the hunt—”

“— He’s _after_ you.” Simon confirmed all her fears.

With a cough, Simon watched her visibly clear all thoughts of that man, the _target,_ out of her mind. “He will take you to the site of Der Reflex, when he knew he can trust you. You will infiltrate his gang of revolutionists, go through with their planned demonstration otherwise, well, I turn _you_ in. Oder they, or they beat me to it with—”

“—A bullet in my head, got it.”

“Call it what you want to call it,” She sniggered, cocking a sly blonde brow. “And Simon,” The agent in question raised his gaze, motioning for her to continue. “Get Yasmin back. Before they hurt her, send her too…” She shook her head. Neither wanted to imagine where the state would imprison her, a Western spy with a mind to bring down communism in East Berlin.

_Never let personal relationships interfere with the line of work. It’ll only end in heartbreak. Or death._

“I _will._ Though, first. What is your name? How will I find you?”

Simply, she extended a hand. One that Simon was no longer terrified to take. “ _Simonsen._ Renée Simonsen.” They shook hands. Her grip was warm, firm.

“ _Simon_ -sen, really?!” Simon couldn’t help but chuckle. “West German?”

“No, Danish. French Intelligence?”

“… No,” He grinned at her confusion. “Unlike what the name suggests.”

  
“You have to be quick about it. The French are after Yasmin too. That is why I thought, you know, you were here...” Renée trailed off, Simon didn’t need to hear any more.

A million questions flashed up in his mind. Where was she? Who was with her? Were they East German? Were they KGB? Heaven forbid, was she en route to Moscow...?

“Simon.” And with that, her cool gaze frosted over again. “They call me ‘Rio.’ But you, you have not earned the right to call me that,” She surveyed him, cheekily eyeing him up and down. Her gaze broadened, as did her smirk. “Yet.”

“Yet!?” He winked. She pouted.

  
“You go for _both,_ huh?”

Simon croaked out a small moan, unsure whether she was simply toying with him to have him backed against the wall or, toying with him for more information. To say that he wasn’t beginning to enjoy it, would be an understatement.

  
She was stunning, with a heart ever so pure. How could he refuse?

“Come Le Bon, my motorcycle is outside.”

Simon nodded and rose to his feet, following Renée out the door. Together the blondes slinked their way out the back, practically gluing themselves to the walls and darkened corners of the shadowy buildings. The streets were paved with cruel moonlight, which illuminated their path. Her motorcycle lay gleaming, two helmets awaiting them.

Simon clambered on and held on tight. The name ‘John Taylor’ whooshing through his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/2/21 update: I’ve decided to continue uploading this fic. There’s 18k of it waiting to be shared. Expect a new chapter or two each Monday, had to be Monday.
> 
> New fic on Monday! 🌒


	3. Those Who Feel Me Near, Pull The Blinds And Change Their Minds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Bowie’s ‘Cat People (Putting Out Fire).’

Screeching the motorcycle into gear, Simon removed his helmet and tossed his head back. Before him stood a shadowy tower block of mundane, incredibly small, and lifeless East German flats. Renée was residing here for the time being, having long since immersed herself in the Volksgemeinschaft. What was left of this _society,_ Simon couldn’t be sure.

Stepping into the lift, he noted the endless etchings and phallic drawings. Nazi symbols and what he was certain was only offensive German language to make him laugh. He yanked at the cage-like shutters, pulling them across. Trudging his way to her apartment 7609, Simon clutched tight to the inconspicuous brown bag tucked away beneath his arm.

She was awaiting him, having spied him returning her motorcycle in the car park. The Dane unlocked the door and Simon dove inside, helping to quickly bolt it and secure the chains.

Simon immersed himself in her seventy-nine quadrat metre _Plattenbau,_ her given apartment with a communist twist. Drab. Grey stone floors, outdated wallpapers, a small tattered sofa, and coffee table. Her kitchen was attached, with a tight winding corridor which he presumed led to the bedroom and bathroom. The place appeared ghastly; stuck in the seventies, Simon was prepared to see the back of it.

“I know it’s not much Simon but, it works. Blending in.” She stated, a little hesitant.

Simon took a seat beneath the fading Nagel print on the wall; an obvious smuggle in from the West. Renée returned within moments, record player out and ready. To drown out the sound, she turned on the television to the daily news broadcast. The familiar bleating of the communist driven, brainwashing Aktuelle Kamera programme filled their silence.

“Ich mache, was ich mache. Ich tue, was ich tue.”

“ _I Do, What I Do_ …?” Simon parroted, unveiling the record Renée’s contact had waiting for him at Alexanderplatz. “Sounds sleazy… and stupid.”

Renée chuckled, placing the single and needle down. She fiddled with the knobs and dials, choosing to play the record in reverse at a new speed; much to Simon’s confusion. “You hear their message.” Renée explained, curtly.

“Who’s message?” Simon asked, leaning down towards the crackling record.

Renée rolled her eyes. “ _Der Zerlumpten Tiger_.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph Stalin, what?!” The agent laughed, though she didn’t find it funny.

Renée rolled her eyes, again. “It means: ‘The Ragged Tigers.’ Remember that name.”

Together they crowded the record, Renée span it a few times. With each spin, they heard something new, gathering information as to where The Ragged Tigers were. Their whereabouts, where Simon could find them. He also heard his contact, Taylor, heard his voice for the first time. It was strange to hear the man’s attempt at an English accent, almost whispering over the pulsing synth beat of the backing track.

The agent was astonished, reciting back the final address, hoping he had solved the final puzzle.

The nod Renée gave him, told him he had done it; cracked the code. Together, they devised their plan of action; knowing a visit to the café was in-store. Simon needed to make contact over a cuppa, quite literally.

Their conversation progressed, their bonds were deepened and solidified. Renée presented Simon with a special patch, simply known as the ‘New Moon’ patch; to sew into the collar of his leather jacket. The Ragged Tigers would envision him as one of their own should they _see_ it. Doing just that, the maroon patch with the three lines and arrowheads perfectly tucked itself away into Simon’s jacket, branding him.

He felt like one of their own, almost. He was gaining trust of the Dane.

“So, how long have you been in the East for, Renée?”

She paused, before placing down her coffee cup. The Mocha Fix-Gold packet fell straight off the kitchen counter, granules painting her stony floor brown. She stiffened, unmoving, frozen in time; unable to clean up.

Her vocal was thick, dark, gravely. Almost a snarl, a sound Simon wasn’t even sure she could make. “Life has _never_ been the same, since I come to the GDR.” Collecting her thoughts, Renée slowly turned to face Simon. “You know I got into this because of the excite but… mein Gott, it’s a _war zone_ here unlike one I had ever seen. The criminals live amongst the locals. It’s miserable.”

By cocking a blonde brow and cocking her head, she silently ordered him to shut up. To not ask questions now. There was no need, Simon should simply _comply_ and bask in their silence.

Though she did reveal her alibi. She was a model in from the West, on the cover of endless magazines. She had endless covers of Vogue Deutsch hanging throughout her place, a new copy on the table to further validate her story. Simon’s earlier intuition had absolutely been correct: Renée was a supermodel, worthy of her spotlight. However, being an undercover Danish spy did really throw a spanner into her high end, glossy page, works.

Simon asked nothing further, although he couldn’t rid his thoughts of her and Yasmin. He had so many questions, from their inevitable first meeting, to his fellow agent making promises she unfortunately could not keep. However, now was not the time for an interrogation: no matter how friendly he intended it to be.

Hours and two cups of tea later, Simon was near passed out on her worn-in sofa. Bangs and crashes sounded. The door was kicked down. A shot. A jumble of screams and cries. The building was being searched; Simon had to escape.

“The Stasi. Get out, go. Go, Charley _go!”_ Renée helped him up, ushering him to the bedroom. “Behind the painting, go!”

A man. Trench coat. Trilby hat. Always watching.

They tossed the picture to the ground, its frame smashing instantly as Simon clawed at the vault, prying it open before sealing himself inside the wall, grudgingly leaving her to deal with the Stasi scum. Only one resident was stated as living here, Simon couldn’t be found out. Couldn’t be seen, wearing The Ragged Tiger’s ‘New Moon’ patch.

He tried hard to keep his breathing steady and began to crawl through. Winding tunnels, vents, tubes... he didn’t know what. All that he did know; was Renée’s voice pounding in his head, her hitches and when her vocal began to strain. It took every ounce of strength to not turn back, to not burst open the room door and to knock the officer out cold once he heard her screaming, knowing she was being kicked to floor whilst the place was ransacked. Screaming allein, _allein!_ That Renée was in the flat, alone.

A man. Trench coat. Trilby hat. Always watching.

He didn’t wait.

Simon scurried aimlessly through the vents, using his lighter to guide him. Choosing to put out his fire, with gasoline.

***  
  


Nothing prepared him for meeting Renée again the following evening. Though she considered herself lucky - the officers hadn’t found anything of any value. Nor Western, nor contraband. A painting was one thing, a British secret agent was another. Having left her place tossed about, vandalised and destroyed; the agent had picked herself up and was determined to get to Simon. To get _through_ to him.

Nothing could have prepared Simon to see her face, swallowing a cry as she removed the visor on her helmet. Her right eye was swollen, unveiling her cherry bruise beginning to fade into a darkened plum. And her split lip. Simon fought down all his words, his anger; unable to fully believe what the woman had been through. He didn’t ask where else she may have been abused; the stern look in her face told him to press on. To be happy that here she was, still breathing.

Together they faced a café, as instructed by the imported record’s message. Nothing major, a somewhat run down and tattered building. With brown bunting hanging before it, a communist flag waving anything but proudly. It didn’t draw attention; it was the perfect choice to plot a revolution.

The streets were riddled with guards, some dressed, others lost in the sparse crowd. They were ever so close to the border that Checkpoint Charlie, the agent’s escape, was almost in view.

“I can go no further.” She uttered, not leaving her motorcycle. She revved it once, drawing Simon’s attention to her again.

He hummed. “This Taylor’s been after you for—”

“— A long time, yes. He knows my face from catalogue. It would do no good to just _throw_ myself into his lap now, would it?” She growled, a fire crossing those covered blues.

“Of course.” Simon nodded, feeling those hot blues piercing into his own.

“You remember the plan. You approach no one, talk only to the target asset. Alles klar?”

“Herr Kommissar.” Simon winked.

“Sehr schön. Good luck, Le Bon.” Within moments, a harsh rev of the engine, saw Renée speeding out of there. A roar of smoke lapped at Simon’s feet, the wind tousling his hair. He turned around, feeling his heart thudding and mouth going dry.

A man. Trench coat. Trilby hat. Always watching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: It’s New Fic On Monday!


	4. How Quiet They Gather, When The Storm’s About To Blow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As its Andy's birthday, and I don't have my other Power Taylor's fic ready to share quite yet, I decided to post an honourary Taylor-infused chapter today; to make up for it. Happy 60th, crazy axe man!!
> 
> Chapter title taken from Duran Duran’s ‘Of Crime And Passion.’

Simon took those sacred steps towards the front door, raising his collar to hide his face. Simon kept the ‘New Moon’ patch directly out of sight, but close. Ever so close.

He was dressed per the norm, in his rich leather jacket and matching trousers. No gloves, his hands shoved themselves into his pockets. He wore an insignia ring on his right ring finger, in gleaming gold. Yasmin had given it to him; he was reminded of her presence. Memories of the two of them came flooding back. Be it in the field or not, on the scene, or not. How close they were, how perfect a pair they made.

He was unceremoniously reminded, just what was at stake.

He pulled out a photograph of his target asset. Chiselled jawbone, a mish-mash of brown and blonde locks. Petite nose, small pinkish Cupid’s bow lips. A scowl firmly in place.

He poorly recited Renée’s inscription, the one she had been doing her best to teach him the whole drive down, speeding near sixty. _Der Reflex ist ein einsames Kind, das nur im Café wartet._

“Okay… Der Reflex... fuck! Why can’t it be ‘99 Luftballons!’ You’re on, Taylor.”

A man. Trench coat. Trilby hat. Always watching.

Simon stepped inside with a shaky exhale, scouring the joint of low life’s. The place was riddled with shady looks and shady doings: all purposefully kept out of his sight. He tip-toed in, doing his best to survey the scene from behind his sunglasses. Whipping them off, he placed them in his pocket, sending a shaky glance forward. He caught him, the figure sneaking through from what appeared to be behind the bar. Attempting to look inconspicuous, Simon hovered a moment, awaiting the man in question to take a pew. He did, amongst a gaggle of other men, conversation beginning to flow.

**_How quiet they gather when the storm’s about to blow?_ **

Before him lay four men. One that he recognised, he had briefly laid eyes on this man with the jay black hair back at the theatre. The one who had nodded to Simon once, with a warning flashing in his dark eyes. Besides the theatre guy, sat another in a cap; with a ponytail cascading down the back of his leather jacket. Opposite sat a blonde, with pastel pink lips and far too much eyeliner, wrapped up warm. And besides the blonde… _holy fuck._ Simon felt his cheeks heat.

**_Now don’t look away._ **

****

Taylor was sitting there, majestically lying back in his chair with his hands behind his teased auburn hair. His eyes were sparkling, his devilish grin ever so inviting. His jaw was sharp, features well defined and profound. He was truly gorgeous, and seemingly was unaware that he was pulling Simon towards him. Simon, who hasn’t even realised he had been walking, been talking. Now standing sheepishly before their table, gaze falling to his feet.

**_Caught in the crossfire, and it ain’t no wind of change._ **

He was absolutely aware of heated glares on him. From the men before him, from the old woman who had seemingly caught his bluff as soon as he had stepped across the threshold. Simon swallowed thickly, forcing his gaze up.

He was never nervous, never second guessing himself. He prided himself on his intuition, following it and having his presence be known. But this Taylor, boy, was he in deep.

“I’m looking for,” He began, noting the _cracks_ in what seemed to be _pavement_ beneath his feet. No floorboards. He coughed, so he could raise his voice. “Herr Taylor.” A sea of laughter erupted, crashing onto a suddenly embarrassed Simon’s shore. “Ent.. entshool…dee-gung.”

The laughter intensified, absolutely targeting his poor Deutsch.

_Oh, sod you all._

“Entschuldigung, mein Herr. Es gibt viele _Taylor_. Ich bin ‘Taylor,’ er heißt ‘Taylor.’ Er heißt ‘Taylor’ auch!” Ponytail began, motioning across their tiny table, sniggering throughout his words. “Wir haben ein Problem, oder?”

Simon recognised multiple Taylors. He was both astonished and pissed off. There wasn’t a chance in hell that they were brothers.

“Brüder? Ha, nein!”

“Sie sprechen kein Deutsch.” The blonde with too much eyeliner spoke as his gritty voice directly targeted Simon. “Komm schon Andrew, he is another ignorant Englishman.”

Andrew, with the ponytail and teeny legs, laughed again. “Agreed.”

Simon felt his face grow hot; but kept his gaze on the rowdy table of men. “I meant… I’m looking for Jo _—Nigel_ Taylor.” _Major John._

“Kriegsminister John?!” Ponytail again erupted into his own laughing fit.

“J.. Ja…” Simon encouraged, poorly. “Yes, ‘war minister’ John.” Of course, he recognised the word ‘Krieg’ and every abbreviation of it. _War._

Abrupt, their laughter stopped. Eyeliner had idly been tapping his matches atop the table. Ponytail was quick to stop him, placing a disruptive hand atop of his manicured fingertips, forcing him to still. Forcing him to quiet. To _comply._

“ _Kommissars_.”

Simon straightened up, training his eyes off into the distance.

Der Kommissar spoke clearly, heavy accent penetrating deep into each fearful civilian, telling them they had half hour left till curfew. This place was now closed. Simon grunted in frustration, turning to face the man. A superior aryan looking type, much like Simon himself. When he pivoted round again, he noted the table had scattered.

There were no Taylors to be seen.

***  
  


Peering round the corner, Simon’s gloved hand wrapped around the grey brick. Surveying the poorly lit scene, rain pelting the inky black streets, he took the chance. Simon dashed across, shoving his hands in his pockets; near gluing himself to the never ending graffitied wall. Renée was awaiting him, at the further end of the wall. She had new information.

The border guards were all over. They were always watching, hiding in plain sight. Luckily for Simon, he had valid paperwork to guarantee him access to the allied sides; should he be caught, searched.

She simply winked his way, motioning above. Renée was perched beneath a border guard’s watch tower, directly out of sight, wearing an oversized rain mac. Simon had to creep around, escape the searchlight. He did just that, with stealth.

The two met up, sprinting away from the wall. Their hands brushed swiftly, one gloved hand to another, making the exchange, before Simon took off in another direction. Leaving Renée stalking off, black umbrella raised and sunglasses in place.


	5. You Know You Can’t Stop It, When They Start To Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Re-Flex’s ‘The Politics Of Dancing.’
> 
> Here’s where it all starts ramping up.

The agent found his way back towards the centre of East Berlin, crossing murky cobblestone streets. Wisps of smoke were clouding the air; the fog was thick as the thunder roared. East Berlin was deserted, though it was surely passing two AM so he wasn’t surprised. At least that’s what the clock tower said, it’s golden numbers were shimmering in the crystal moonlight.

Simon kept his head down, kept his chin up and kept walking. At no alarming pace, drawing no attention; collar raised, and hands shoved deep into his pockets. He sped around another darkened corner, ready to hop over some bars to dash through the park.

It was too late until he realised. He’s not alone, in the shadows.

_Stasi._

The leaflet Renée had bestowed upon him was burning a hole through his leathers.

_They’re always watching._

He stopped, dead. Pulse rabbiting, hackles raising. Ever so slowly, he cocked his head, catching the reflection from a car window. A gloomy shadow was emerging, dressed in many layers, keeping their eyes on him.

_Oh shit._

The figure was backlit by moonlight, the flame from his cigarette barely illuminated his face, soaked from the pouring rain.

_Run._

Simon picked up his pace, taking a mere three steps before he was yanked back by the collar, ‘New Moon’ patch catching the light. They gave him no chance to flee.

Simon was mercilessly shoved face first into the brick wall, a rough hand in his wet hair, the other latching to his hip, pressing him in deep. His nose was smushed into the cement, cheeks grazed and shoved aside, panting. He tensed dramatically: they were looking deeply into his face. Searching him, and his secrets, bodily. Leaning down, jutting a bony knee into his lower back. A splayed hand joined his atop the wall: red gloves. That hand inched its way forward, clawing at his arms, his shoulders, his cheeks.

A man. Trench coat. Trilby hat. Always watching.

“Wenn der Feuer ausbrennen, ist nur das Feuer schuld.” They leaned in, voice hot and breathy against his ear. Teasing, tormenting. Simon shivered bodily, trying to stable his pulse. “Keine Zeit zur Sorge, denn wir sind wieder unterwegs.”

He span Simon around harshly, chuckling, arms and legs spread. The red glove planted to his chest pushed him with force, keeping him still. _Obedient._ Both were soaked, panting, tense, dripping in far more than simply rain.  
  


The blackened shadow was ever so close, pretty eyes glassing over, pretty lips falling open. “Not on your own, Simon, bitte… bitte, _bitte_.” They pressed themselves deeper into his chest, in a perfect alignment, nose coming to swiftly pass his cheek, moist lips tickling his neck. He kissed his final words into Simon’s sweaty temple, voice trembling. “Please, _Hold Back The Rain_.”

**_The politics of moving. If this message’s understood?_ **

****

Shakily, Simon craned his neck so he could meet the man, panting softly beside him. His lips were soaked, tasting anything but sweet. _Intoxicating._ Simon leant forward and as did he, lips meeting in a chaste, breath stealing, kiss. His gloved hands began to roam, keeping Simon’s own above his head, inching further down his toned chest. Simon’s lips parted, voluntarily or not, two tongues began to battle. Pressing into his sides, the man blanketed him, grinding roughly into Simon’s cut hips. He had nothing to hide, they had already sunk to his crotch, were palming him through his ever straining leathers.

The man pulled away first, breathing harshly, moaning. He kissed the water droplets over Simon’s cheeks, peppered small kisses down the blood trickling from his forehead. He groaned hotly, sealing his lips atop of the agent’s plush own again.

A final grind, a quiver, a harsh cry, and a jolt. He yanked Simon’s papers from him.

“I light my torch,” He gestured wildly beneath Simon’s belt. “And _wave_ it, do I?” He growled, almost mocking him.

**_The Politics of Dancing. The politics of feelin’ good._ **

Stepping back, two devilish eyes surveyed Simon darkly. Those chocolate browns were coated in lust, in danger, reflected in the shimmering moonlight above them. Their spotlight wasn’t clear enough for Simon to make out anything more than a blurry white line. A masculine aura, too forceful at playing dominant. Over-confident, basking in the gritty shadows.

**_The politics of moving._ **

“Gute Nacht, mein süßer Prinz.”

Simon was knocked out cold, body tumbling to the ground. Knees colliding with the cobblestone, mud and grime barely cushioned the fall.

**_If this message’s understood?_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said ‘New Fic On Monday’ but I was vibing to my Neumond playlist and figured what the hell, ‘New Fic On Thursday’ too.


	6. When You’ve Laid Your Hands Upon Me, And Told Me Who You Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from New Order’s iconic ‘Blue Monday.’
> 
> Though I highly recommend listening to the HEALTH cover version for this fic. It sets the tone and pace, much nicer.

“Wha… what happen…?”

Groggy, blinking back the harsh white light which danced behind his closed eyelids; Simon was coming too.

**_How does it feel?_ **

“ _Sheiße!_ You… you awake?”

He was immediately crowded. Unsure hands were on him, checking him over. There was a cough, Simon tried to focus. He hunted down the silhouette, feeling light puffs of air on his nude skin, and a blearing pain across his forehead.

**_To treat me, like you do._ **

His lips were aching for touch. A touch he would never forget.

“Sorry. I be sorry for, y’know, what I did.” A shaky voice began, still checking Simon over. “I saw the patch in your jacket, and I… freak. I did not know if I should kick you, or _kiss_ you… and then I, heilige sheiße! I do both.”

**_When you’ve laid your hands upon me._ **

****

Finally, they stopped their incessant touching. The body crouched down before Simon, weary browns trying to focus on his bleary blues. There was a genuine sorrow in that tone, a spook in that gaze. A watery smile trying to cross those lips.

Red gloved hands rested atop Simon’s thigh.

**_And told me, who you are._ **

“The hell…?” Simon groaned, finally coming too. He was bounded and bested, hands tied behind his back. The rope was burning into his nude skin, he wondered why he was naked from the waist up. Simon had no shoes, and unbuttoned trousers. His legs were tied too, rather sloppily.

He quite possibly could’ve shaken himself free, though an instinct told him to stay put. To play the game.

**_Tell me now, how do I feel?_ **

“I’m sorry. You accept my apology, yes?” The voice pleaded, shaky hands coming up to cup Simon’s cheek. He pulled away with a hiss, surely bruising.

“What did… who are you?” Simon growled, noting those calloused fingertips falling to their sides.

The body arose to standing, now towering before Simon. They coughed, perhaps buying time, trying to rid the last of the fear from their voice. “I… I had to be sure it was you. That I could… _trust_ you, Charley.”

“Char— how do you know…”

“You find my leaflet. Mustn’t have them gettin’ out beforehand, you understand?” They didn’t give Simon a chance to answer, who ground his teeth together and flared his nostrils.

Simon struggled in his bonds, letting slip a throaty moan.

“I not normally so… aggressive? I,” They broke off, accent tinged with sorrow. “I should not done that. I’m _sorry_.”

Simon spat, “I want you to _untie_ me.”

**_How does it feel?_ **

“Alles klar.” They trotted back over, falling to their knees before him. Simon smirked as their quick fingers gnawed through the rope, seemingly this wasn’t the man’s first attempt at tying anything up. And then, they paused. Ever so slowly, they arose back to standing; a smirk crossing that angelic face. “Nein.”

“No?”

“No, no I will not.” They muttered, voice dropping low. “Tell me, who you work for?”

**_To treat me, like you do._ **

Simon tossed his head back, this man was by in no means intimidating, he was far too _pretty_ to be scaring him. And sloppy, much like his grammar, he almost was out of the rope behind his back. Simon kept fiddling, knowing the knots were coming loose.

“Who do _you_ work for?” He growled back, growing impatient.

“You are… actor, are you not, Le Bon? Das ist was dein documents say.” The German twinge was deep, it took the agent a moment to untangle those jumbled words. Ears ringing, he kept working at the bonds behind his back. Treading gently on this already flaming ground. “An actor, who can’t hide… _this!”_

They lurched forward, palming his crotch. Simon yelled out of surprise, then groaned in frustration – all types.

“It appears you enjoy being tied down, yes? _Schwul!_ ” The voice began again, giggling through the innuendo. “Ren was right about you. Sehr einfach! You are too _easy_.”

**_How does it feel?_ **

“Shh-wool?… Oh, you mean ‘queer’ don’t you? Well, I’ll have you Nazi shitass know—” Simon stopped dead in his tracks. “Ren… who?”

“Oh! Do not toy with me, Le Bon. I know all about the deal you have with her.” They snarled, crowding his space. “It is shameful she could not keep her mouth shut… she did what I ask of her. And yet, here you are.”

“What you… what you asked of…” He trailed off; the man again crouched down before him.

**_To treat me, like you do._ **

Their lips were ever so close to touching, noses brushing. The man before him sighed softly, feeling the heat simmer. The tense energy fuelled them both, giving Simon pause. “I need, needed to know if…” Beckoning the man down to him, Simon brushed that cut cheek with his own. “If I could… _trust_ you, Le Bon.” Noses bopping together, he craned his neck up to meet those lips. An adorable overbite, parting wonderfully beneath him.

Pulling away Simon was shaking. It was evident before him that so was his capture, who could barely keep himself away. “Do _you_ trust _me?_ ” He dared, holding eye contact.

The blush crossing those cheeks was unmistakable, Simon found himself to be quite fond of the look. They nodded, eyes falling to the floor. “I do now… yes. I am sorry I call you ‘queer.’ And, for my poor English.”

With a small smile, “I’m sorry you ever met me – it doesn’t matter. Your English is rather superb, bar the odd grammatical error.”

“Error?” They cocked their head, blonde fringe falling. “I try harder.”

“No need. And please, no more games.” Simon began, schooling his tone into something friendly, unable to bask how turned on he (still) was. “I’m only here to _help._ You know that. Renée knows that… I want in, check my coat. I’m one of you, you Ragged Tig— _ah!_ ”

**_Sexcrime._ **

Simon was silenced with a kiss. A deeper one, the body was sinking to straddle him, running his gloved hands through Simon’s shaggy hair. They were panting harshly above him, grinding their hips together maddeningly. He was growing hot and bothered, body arching wonderfully upwards to meet the man’s hips, moaning into his parted mouth. Simon fought to touch him; his hands still somewhat tied. He fought for dominance, craved exhorting himself over the man quivering in his lap.

The man in his lap, who was rutting forcefully against him. Having him seeing stars, cursing, crashing violently from his high. The white behind Simon’s eyes was blinding, almost like the pain inflicted upon him earlier. Though this time, that pain was more _pleasurable_. That pain, that spark, that fall from grace; was met by shaky hands and heated lips, convulsions, and moans.

The body fell forward, resting his heavy head on Simon’s shoulder; fighting to come back down to Earth. Simon too was breathless, motionless, sitting stunned beneath the beauty. Who impossibly, was glowing even brighter now. Eyes so wide, they couldn’t hide any more lies. Eyes like an angel…

“You… c-comm— _comment_ well on my English, thank you.”

Simon had never seen a man as magnificent as this one before him, panting and gasping, resting steady atop his sweaty shoulder.

“Lets… l-let us stop… chasin’ each other, Simon.”

“Okay,” He huffed, pressing his words into that temple. “Yes, Kriegsminister _John_.”

The man in question startled, with a little yelp. In the haze of their afterglow, the sweat forming on Simon’s clammy palms had helped him slip free. No wonder John tensed, falling deeper into Simon’s frame; the agent had a hand in his damp hair, another round the man’s back.

With a giggle, he thrust his hips up to meet John’s, who croaked out a cry. “Ah… Si— _Simon!”_

Simon had never thought his name could sound so ravishing, in a thick Bavarian accent.

“You’re really shitty at tying those knots.” The agent murmured, tossing the rope from around his wrists far; to illustrate his point.

John, though his face was already cherry red for a multitude of reasons, impossibly blushed darker. Raising his head, he enveloped his arms around Simon’s neck; still fighting to breathe deeply.

“Maybe I wanted you to _escape_ , you know? _I Do What I Do,_ _to have you, have you…_ ”

“I bet you didn’t count on being sat here in my lap, juices staining between us.”

**_Sexcrime._ **

****

John’s face fell. “I know, I should not have—”

**_Nineteen eighty-four._ **

****

“— It’s _okay_ John, I enjoyed it. The roughness… You owe me a pair of trousers, though.”

“Sure, yes.”

“And underwear!”

“Okay, yes… Mine are kaputt, too!”

“So uh, you do what you do to have me, have me, huh?” Simon posed, slyly. John’s face impossibly flushed even darker. He hid his glimmering smile beneath his hand.

John nodded, sliding his tongue across his bottom lip. He was sinfully sexy, in a boyish way with rugged charm…

_How foolish he is, this couldn’t be easier._

Cocking a brow, “Oh really? What an ever so fun game of cat and mouse. We’re on the same bloomin’ side!” Simon bellowed, poking lightly at John’s ribs. “I want to work _with_ you, not bring down your organisation! Neither does agent ‘Rio’— uh, Renée.”

_The ‘Honeypot’. Seduce them till they crack, or—_

John cackled, cherry ice cream smile crossing his gleaming lips.

“Now please John, hear me out…”

_They do what they do, to crack you._


	7. The Fighting Has Begun On The Streets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Gary Moore & Phil Lynott’s ‘Out In The Field.’

Crouching down, Simon too took a bucket and sponge to clean the yellowish cobblestone walls. Crouching down, Simon too took a bucket and sponge to blend in. The line of labourers was long, gruesome. The sound of scrubbing was loud, infuriating.

“You and Nigel have been getting… very close.” Simon momentarily blanked. He shook his head, pressing up against the wall. “You really want him, do you not, Simon?”

He exhaled sharply, turning to face them.

Nick, the man with far too much eyeliner, arose from his seat. “He cannot kept nothin’ from me, Simon. I know him better than he knows himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“He act like he could not care less about you. He act like… you don’t exist. He _wants_ you. He is awful liar.” Nick stated, voice thick. “He’s falling for you, I don’t trust it. Do you trust him?”

“The hell should I not trust him, and you guys, now?”

“Do you think it be professional, to fall for the man you is trying to overthrow?” Simon glared, feeling physically attacked. The punch flew, now his chest hurt. “And you would break his heart when, you know, you can _run_ free…” Nick simply cocked his brow, before sashaying away.

Simon lay sat there a wounded animal. His pulse was soaring, the anger flaring on his skin when—

_Holy crap._

Members of The Ragged Tigers were dotted about, keeping quiet and eyes focused to the task at hand. They were on their knees, they were quiet and complacent. Simon followed, chancing quick glances down the line.

_Johnny, the fuck are you doing? Keep to your spot! Don’t even think about coming over here, you little—_

John was approaching him, sneaking past a guard. The guard growled at him, some crude German Simon couldn’t make out, and John visibly shrunk away. Stopping himself, John span back around and hauled his retorts. He was pushed, shoved. Pushed to the ground. Kicked. A boot atop his chest.

“Bastard! Leave him the fuck alone!” Simon upped and dashed over, ready to dock the guard one when John called out to him. Begged him to walk away, to say nothing. To _comply._

Kicking at his heels, Simon saw the panic in John’s trembling bottom lip, eyes clouding over in tears. He stepped away, body shaking, trudging back to his spot.

John lay there in surrender, roaring out a cry. The guard removed his foot, yanking the man up to standing, ushering him to take the stand beside Simon. He tugged at John’s leather gloves, tossing them aside with no protest. John was shoved to his knees beside Simon, shoved so he fell forward with a face full of sand.

With a cough, the freedom fighter struggled to seated; to keep his eyes down. To _comply._ His cheeks were flushing in his shame, his tears were pricking at his eyelids in fear.

A dusty shoe print stained his leather jacket. Dust and grime coated his sleeves.

“No, John don’t—” _Please._ Simon whispered.

He nodded, inhaling deep to stifle the cry. He whimpered, choking out a deep breath. Simon chanced an end to his life by placing a hand atop of the man’s jittering shoulder. He brushed over John’s shoulder, rounding his fingertips up and into the man’s frazzled hair.

John’s hands were bare, bruised. He hadn’t even scrubbed enough walls yet.

John grudgingly returned to the task, ducking Simon’s hand. He reached into the steel bucket beside Simon only to jump slightly. Simon’s deft fingertips brushed his own, lost in the murky water which swirled around their hands. Their fingers interlocked, and finally John could breathe again. Could slow down his pulse, could match Simon’s rhythm.

He watched as the freedom fighter’s chocolate eyes slipped closed. As he tipped his head back ever so slightly, releasing a small moan.

All they had to do was not grab the same sponge.

“Erm… Johnny? As pretty as you are, you’re gonna attract you know who’s Bolshevik attention…” Simon coughed out, shaking him from his daze.

John flushed, in embarrassment this time, coughing out a little, “Es tüt mir leid, Charley.”  
  


Simon simply nodded as the warmth fluttered in his chest, letting John take this sponge. The freedom fighter followed the agent’s lead, crawling in even closer. Together they scrubbed away, harder and harder, only to unveil a grotty image. An icon, a diamond.

Simon barely swallowed his gasp.

“John… Johnny, the fuck is—”

“— _Halt!_ You, up.” The frosty hand on Simon’s shoulder hauled him up to standing, turning him bodily with force. “Haben Sie ein Problem mit diesem Mann, Sir?” Simon blanked, blinking rapid. “Ich sagte, haben Sie ein Problem mit diesem Mann? Nein?... Mach dich wieder an die Arbeit, faul!”

John rushed to standing, rushing to fall in line beside him. His face was flushing brighter, his eyes were crowding over in… in… Simon didn’t know what.

“Er hat _kein_ Problem mit mir, Kommissar. Er half mir nur, schrubbte die Wand. Ich bin sehr müde… Verstehe mich?” John rambled, locking his gaze and holding it. “Das ist alles, mein Herr.”

The Kommissar cocked a gold brow, face hardening. With a snort, he pushed Simon back, forcibly letting go. He turned, strutting down the line, yelling commands Simon couldn’t bring himself to care for. Simon fell back to his knees, creeping up beside John again.

They continued to wash away the paint to reveal the diamond, the ‘New Moon’ logo was now shimmering before then. Simon couldn’t believe it, hand coming to rest atop it. He sent a shaky look over to John; who’s own darkened eyes darted back.

“They try to tame us. Looks like they try again.” He silently roared, fuming as John scrubbed at the logo. “Wilde Jungs.” He spat.

Poorly covered, poorly hidden. Poorly glossed over, both men unveiled graffiti after graffiti. Etchings, paintings, the whole lot. A whole line of ‘New Moon’ arrowheads, tattered recruitment posters, leaflets, GDR propaganda posters full of false hope.

A whole wall of crying out for help: pathetically _censored._

“Meet me back here at midnight, Simon. The parcels have arrived. Tell no one.”


	8. Reached Out A Hand To Try Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from A Flock Of Seagull’s ‘I Ran (So Far Away)’.

“Heilige Sheiße! Diese Boxen werden nur schwerer… _ouch!_ ”

Laughter rang all through the air, then he was silenced. Crouching down, Simon bought a soft hand to John’s shoulder pad, as the other man pressed into the splinter he had just gotten from his damn heavy wooden box.

“You’ve got to be careful, Johnny! Why do you think they’re marked ‘fragile: _explosives’_?! You numpty!”

Simon eased the splinter out, letting John suck at the little blood he hadn’t meant to draw free.

He tried to pretend that was not affecting him, down low. He didn’t get very far, being deafened by the light sucking sound those damn lips made.

John glanced up, the moonlight flickered across his dark opal eyes, lighting up the smooth planes in his face. Simon stiffened, taking a moment to study the man. John was ever so beautiful when gaping at him, hair tousled by the soft midnight breeze, an embarrassing little blush from carrying the heavy load coating his cheeks. He appeared ever so lost in that moment, mind being washed blank.

John coughed; Simon broke away.

“Let me help you with those fireworks.” John nodded, leaving him there a moment. _Why fireworks, and not machine guns?_

Simon’s beady blues followed the shadowy figure as John trot off back to the cellar doors, returning moments later with more wooden boxes packed full of explosives.

A man. Trench coat. Trilby hat. Always watching.

“A dangerous liaison, indeed. Wasn’t Nick meant to be here, helping you load the horses?” John’s face fell. “He left you to load the horses _alone_ , didn’t he?” John nodded, shyly.

“I think he left us allein, together.” John again left. Again he returned, heavy firework cargo boxes in hand. “Agh, bollocks!” He spat, dropping them with a small shriek.

Both men thanked the stars, John hadn’t just set them ablaze.  
  
  


“What, what is it, Johnny?!” Simon dashed over, coming to plop beside John on the damp concrete. “Wait. ‘Bollocks?!’ Are you copyin’ me? That’s an incredibly _British_ thing to say, you bugger.”

“ _Send me up a drink, jokes Major Tom..._ Bastard.”

“Aww, you _are_ copying me!”

“My… my wrist. It hurts!”

“C’mere Johnny.”

Simon yanked him over, causing another small hiss in vain. He apologised; John debated slapping him. Simon removed his glove, though he couldn’t see much. The moonlight hadn’t bid this alleyway worthy of its spotlight, which is precisely why the men had chosen this site to unload. Now Simon cursed it, fumbling for his lighter.

“Simon, _stop_ it, please, stop!”

Flicking it on, he squinted to make out the man in question’s left wrist. It was swollen, that he could tell by the feel. But damp. Damp with blood.

“Holy cow, Johnny. Is that… are those?!” Simon yanked up John’s coat sleeve, much to the younger man’s protest.

“No, n-no! Simon no, it be not… they nothin—”

“—Bullshit me, _that’s_ not nothing!” Simon spat, leaning in closer with his lighter.

**_And I ran, I ran so far away._ **

John’s wrist was bleeding. Those cuts weren’t new, they were almost deep enough into his skin to try their hand at healing.

“The fuck would you do that, Johnny?! When, _when_ the fuck did you—” Simon shook his head, willing himself to stop.

**_I just ran, I couldn’t get away._ **

Those cuts were anything but new.

“Are you überrascht— _surprised?_ Really Simon?”

Or were they?

**_I couldn’t get away._ **

“You is, erm, _months_ too late. It is old, Simon, okay? Alles klar?”

“ _Nein,_ Herr Kommissar.”

Simon dropped his wrist and John belt out a small scream. Simon lay beside him visibly struck, trying to gather his thoughts.

_That’s why you never take your gloves off. It’s not just worrying about fingerprints. You bastard._

“How did I not see that before?” Simon wondered aloud. “The signs?”

A sniff, a whine.

Simon cocked his head, knowing what was coming.

“I be _sorry_. Sorry!” He watched the man beside him bury himself into a little ball, shaking, head resting atop of his knees. Simon knew his tears were coating the leather, John was trying hard to stay silent: not to worry him further.

“No. Don’t you ever apologise for that.”

Simon reached a trembling hand forward, stopping himself at the last possible moment. He hovered; John’s body jolted in pain. Simon withdrew; John’s body relaxed some. He swallowed his own cry, feeling the guilt sink in.

Simon had tossed John’s red glove into a muddy puddle, only now had he noticed it laying there, lifeless.

After a long, painful silence, of John’s shaky breathing and Simon’s own ragged pants: the agent reluctantly decided to leave John be. He didn’t need to interrogate the man on his past pain now, that wasn’t fair. No matter how much hurt the mere thought of John— no _, no don’t go there_ — was bringing Simon himself, now. How useless he felt. How restless he was becoming.

_That’s why you never take your gloves off, in fear the world will see._

Though Simon did take note, to scrub John down when they were in the clear. To kiss deeply over those scars. To hold John’s left hand. To worship him.

To give him a reason, to hurt himself no more. Simon was here, he could take some of that hurt.

Without word, he hadn’t even noticed, John had long since upped and trailed off into the stormy night.

Hitting his head back into the brick wall, Simon ground out his words, eyes focusing on the fireworks they had long since and foolishly abandoned: “Voices, another sound. Johnny, I can hear you now.” _I’m sorry._

_***_   
  


Raising a shaky hand, insignia ring catching the moonlight, Simon knocked a final time. He stepped back to survey the scene: water droplets falling from the ceiling, the cracking pavement, and worn out stone poorly holding the place together. Even the numbers on the door were crooked, but polished; Simon could almost see himself in the fading gold bass. He was _horrified_ to see himself in the fading gold brass.

“Sheiße! Ich habe dich gefra—” The bleary gaze shot up, stalling on Simon’s own. “Oh, it’s you.” They stated, eyes falling to their socked feet.

Simon noted their appearance, many layers, many blankets; and still shivering. Hair a rumpled mess, eyes surely glassy. Alcohol staining that breath. He stepped forward with caution, tiles creaking under his boots. He stepped forward with caution, holding out a hand.

An ungloved, but bandaged hand leant forward, trembling, searching. Searching for Simon, searching for a reason to keep going.

The agent did have his apology all lined up, having recited it numerous times in his mind on the ride over. But as he was faced with those weary browns, the tired look of distress; all those words faded to grey. Simon figured it was best to not say anything, let their bodies do the talking.

He hadn’t slept, he hadn’t eaten; and it was clear that the same went for the body before him – even in the strenuous day apart from each other they had endured. Had strived to make through.

That quivering hand tried to retreat, though Simon caught it. Kissed it, massaged it, held it tight.

“ _Come Back And Stay, for good this time. Did you read the book of love?_ ” He sang softly, breath tickling those fingertips as they stiffened in his grip. “ _Come Back And Stay, for good this time..._ ” Simon stepped in closer, bringing the wounded body into his arms. They came undone on his shoulder, clutching Simon’s frame ever so tight. “Shush shush, Johnny I—” Simon kissed it into his hair, the hand on John’s neck tightening as he felt the man try to retreat. “Shall I, shall I stay?”

This time, he allowed John to step back. He nodded, keeping his teary gaze on Simon. He motioned inside, silently asking him to follow. Silently pleading with him to stay, to hold him. To patch back up what Simon hadn’t meant to rip at the seams.


	9. And Everything I Have To Know, I Heard It On My Radio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s my thank you birthday present to all of you...
> 
> Chapter title taken from Queen’s ‘Radio Ga Ga’ for very obvious reasons.

“Cover deine Augen, then!”

Simon did as instructed, shielding his gaze with a giggle. It hadn’t even begun to sink in that: he hadn’t actually seen John nude yet. Fully nude. Nor had he had the chance to explore his body. However, knowing he had to be cautious and play it safe in order to find his _treasure_ in the dark; Simon found that it didn’t really matter. John was taking his time, finding pleasure in teasing him; and Simon found that he really didn’t mind that. It was exciting.

Simon had seen the man so stripped down, so bare, plenty of times before in a whole bunch of means. More touching means. In the two short weeks of having known John, he absolutely knew when the man dared to bare his soul: Simon would see it. He would be floating weightless; he would be coming home. Simon absolutely knew, that as John’s body plummeted into the soak, he was seeing him stripped in a whole new way. He cherished it, these moments of peace.

There were no threats here, no enemy, nothing to be afraid of. Ashamed of, okay maybe, if John chose to see Simon in such a light.

The heated blush coating the younger man’s face as he peered at Simon over the tub begged to differ. With a giggle, a fully clothed and cocky Simon perched atop the closed toilet seat, only a metre or so from the bathtub.

John had taken his advice, his offer. To get clean, to _feel_ clean; a thought Simon wanted to deliver. Showing the man, he could be taken care off, that it was okay to feel vulnerable around those he loved. John had spent years on the run; years in and out of gangs crying out for help far beyond that wall. He knew what it was like to feel alone, feel abandoned; or to even lose his few allies along the way.

**_Wherever we are, whoever we are,_ **

It was becoming clearer to Simon, watching John frolic about in the bathtub before him, that John was becoming an ally, _the_ ally. The allied force Simon did not want to risk losing anytime soon.

**_We’re miles and miles from home. Shine on._ **

With a soft smile, Simon rose to standing, then crouched before John outside the tub. John pouted, confusion writ across the bubbles staining his face. Simon chuckled at that, sweeping his hand through the tame water which lapped at John’s sides. Simon flicked some water into his face, electing a small squeak of surprise. Though here, John had far more ammunition to strike back. A whole tide, quite literally, being aimed at Simon.

“No, n-no, _no!_ ” Simon shrieked, rising up and jumping over to the far wall.

John was giggling, hands splashing about. He was beside himself, rhythmical laughter near flying off the drab cobblestone walls. It really was music to Simon’s ears; a tone he had never heard from the man before. A tone he wasn’t sure he would hear again, he noted, as John lurched forward to grasp a small black battleship; to add to his ever so _manly_ bubble bath.

“I usually do not take baths without the TV. Der Kosmonaut,” He motioned to the tapes lying beside the television set. Old re-runs, favourite films, and television shows. Even a couple Western titles had wormed their way into his collection. “Charley I… uh, I really like space.” John uttered, still motioning to the off television set that had been re-wired so the signal could reach this room. Pulling Simon’s focus. “ _Vollig losgelost, Van der Erde. Schwebt das Raumschiff,_ _Vollig schwerelos..._ ” John giggled again, gaze falling back to the water lapping at his sides. Simon snorted, eyes following that of the battleship, floating languidly up the stream that was John’s bony leg. “So keep me entertain, Simon.”

He laughed again, catching Simon’s beady gaze.

“Space?” Simon’s gaze broadened, a soft smile crossing the agent’s face. “The cosmos?”

John nodded enthusiastically, heavy blonde fringe falling into his eyes.

“I love space too. It always fascinated me as a child. All the planets and endless stars… so _fascinating_ , don’t you think?” John agreed, seemingly fascinated by his words. “ _This is Planet Earth_.”  
  
  


“Bop bop b-bop, b-bop bop b-bop!”

Crawling up, John rest his chin atop his hands, atop the side of the bathtub. He brandished those same damn puppy dog eyes Simon found himself becoming ever so drawn too, unable to disappoint; and John pouted. Pouted hard.

_Shine on, John. Shine on._

Simon cocked a brow; John did the same. Simon motioned to his shirt; John’s bottom lip quirked up.

_Bastard._

Simon began to peel the cotton from his body, unable to stifle a chuckle as John gasped and groaned. Beady brown eyes sealing themselves onto exactly what he wanted: his target asset.

“Shall I _join_ you?” Simon asked with intent, suddenly not wanting to play any more games.

A look of fear momentarily crossed John’s flushing face, before being swept aside by something darker.

“You want me to entertain you, don’t you John? I live to entertain.” Simon winked, ever so cheeky.

More sure of himself, John nodded, doe eyes falling back to his lap. “Bitte. Danke sehr.”

“Please. Thank you.” _Got to have you close, right here._ Simon’s teasing fingertips now rested on the waistband of his leather trousers. “It’s me or the boat, Johnny.”

John cocked his head, bubbly laughter filling the space between them. The younger man’s gaze fell back to the battleship, bobbing obediently beside him, silently debating. “Hmmm, I think… the ship!”

“Ha, you sod.” Simon growled, inching down his zip.

John’s gaze broadened comically, as Simon’s leather trousers fell to the floor. Lifeless. John’s jaw dropped comically, as Simon had a hand on his boxers. Watching him idly, without a care in the world.

“Still wanting the boat, huh Johnny?” _What if I told you: I have a boat? Will that make you cum?_ John rose to his knees once more, sending a huge wave of water raining down at Simon before him. He cried out, boxers now mopping up John’s bath water. “ _Christ!_ Oh well, what good are these now, all soggy?!” Simon giggled, a teasing hand daring him to yank them down; to free himself.

“They are not. No good.” John jibed, splashing Simon and his dazzling golden tan, to further illustrate the point.

“Hey, you bastard!” He chuckled again, running a finger down his thigh. “But be serious a minute Johnny, are you sure you want too? We really don’t have—”

The look John gave him said it all. Speaking volumes, words he couldn’t bring himself to say. “Not on your own so help me, Simon. Please, _Hold Back The Rain_.”

Simon flushed crimson at those words. His words. “Alright. Your wish is my command. _Sing, Sing Blue Silver…_ ”

Simon peeled his boxers away, ever so slowly, ripping a delightful little moan from John. From John, who was running his delightful tongue over his delightful bottom lip. His right hand was now out of sight too, though Simon could tell it was moving, moving _fast_. It appeared the man had completely forgotten about his boat.

***  
  


Another week passed and they were coming ever closer to the day. The revolution was almost in sight. Radios were being taken over, leaflets were printed and ready to hand out. Kites were being made. Kites were being sent aflight.

**_All we hear is Radio Ga Ga._ **

Simon had heard his first successful transmission across the ‘La Luna’ wavelength; John himself had stifled a cry as he too heard his own voice booming back to him.

**_Radio Goo Goo, Radio Ga Ga._ **

The whiff of freedom, the thirst, the hunger, was growing ever stronger. By in no means was there a light to the end of the communist enforced tunnel and yet, as John clutched tighter to Simon’s jacket, they both were in awe of what they had done.

**_All we hear is Radio Ga Ga._ **

It worked. The cables were aligning themselves with the stars. Their plan, to make themselves heard, was working.

**_Radio Goo Goo, Radio Ga Ga._ **

Finally, the agent had heard word from Yasmin’s captors directly, she was being transferred to a new prison. With more guards, higher stakes. It was clear to him now, clear to his bosses back at base; that they were seemingly after more than just money. And to think, Simon had almost forgotten about her…

****

**_Radio, what’s new?_ **

A man. Trench coat. Trilby hat. Always watching.

Simon swallowed down his nerves best he could, watching John rave over the computer, holler in his happiness, embrace this small success. It worked. Their plan, to make themselves heard, was _working._

**_Radio, someone still loves you._ **

Simon swallowed down his nerves best he could, trying to understand. He was here to turn The Ragged Tigers _in_ ; he had been fooled into helping John before. He couldn’t be fooled into letting John run free again. No matter what his heart, his head, had to say for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today March 1, marks the fiftieth anniversary of John Deacon (finally!) joining Queen. He too was 19. So this is a rather neat coincidence, my chapters lining up and all!


	10. Leave No Trace, Hide Your Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Heaven 17’s ‘Temptation.’

Hunching over, Simon exhaled a deep breath as Ponytail, Andy, talked him through their plans. A map of the underground tunnels was laid out, amongst floor plans, street scenes, and little models of East Berlin. Together they were plotting their routes, and Andy introduced Simon to where the fireworks were stashed away. The horses, and other cargo. He had barely noticed, who he had assumed was, Roger moping about the room in near silence.

Simon picked up their leaflet, almost identical to the one Renée had handed to him the previous week beneath the border guard’s tower. Details had been refined since; now Simon could check the small print. Holding the leaflet high, he held it before the light as instructed by Andy. When he squinted, he could read their secret message loud and clear… or would be able too, if the man’s German didn’t compare to that of… a smart, linguistic comparison.

“Der Reflex ist… ein einsames… oh fuck this.” Simon tossed the leaflet down, ignoring Andy’s bubbly laughter.

_“Der Reflex ist ein einsames Kind, das nur in Buchdruckerei wartet._ ” Andy simply recited the words with a crooked grin on his lips, though Simon was sure he had changed them. Not the order, but the place stated. 

Simon rolled his eyes, handing him another wad of leaflets to store away. He straightened up, feeling the presence of the body at his back before he saw them, a devilish grin crossing his face.

**_That sudden feeling carved by another’s hand._ **

Simon’s smile broadened, whirling around to face who was crowding the door.

**_Leave no track._ **

“Ein Moment, Andrew.” Andy nodded, following the red gloved fingertip towards the door. “Nick braucht dich jetzt.”

“Sorry Simon. Duty calls!”

“ _Booty_ calls, more like.” Simon murmured in reply.

Andy grumbled something rude, something rude about Nick. Simon scoffed; even when he didn’t understand a word of their tiffs, their body language said it all. There was a rift brewing between those two. A _temptation_.

Simon couldn’t put his finger on it.

  
Roger followed Andy out, giving Simon a heavy glance before turning away at the door. Simon simply nodded, before sweeping a lock of hair from his face.

A stern voice called. “Danke sehr.”

**_Don’t look back._ **

“So, I was thinking that if we…” Simon motioned back to the maps, the escape routes, immediately engaging in a one sided conversation with the man. The man only crept closer, peering over the contents of the table before him. “And that means, you see, the horses— die _Pferde —_ see, I learnt that word! The horses can get away without getting frightened and then that means that we can… what is it, Johnny? Was ist lös mit dir?”

Simon’s bubbly voice ground to an abrupt halt. John was standing before him, a flicker of something dark was crossing his eyes. Either that or he was confused over Simon’s sudden German babble; Renée’s lessons were really starting to sink in. Though the agent couldn’t be sure, having seen a whole variety of sparks in those browns; plus, they were basking in the shadowy printing office. The shadows could be alluding Simon, into thinking there’s something deeper there. In John’s frosty gaze.

“Johnny?” Simon tried again, reaching forward to clasp his hip. “Please, talk to me.”

John pressed into the touch, leaning forward to kiss Simon once. Ever so tender, swift yet mesmerising.

John pulled away. Slapped him. Simon cried out. John slapped him again.

“Hey! What the… jeez, what the _shit_ John?!”

“And you did not think to tell me?” He screamed, pushing Simon away from him. “After all that I, th-that _we_ have… you know, _done_ together?!”

Simon stopped scrubbing his cheek, from where John’s leather gloved hands had clipped him.  
  


“Really Simon? Was I just another… how you say… ‘conquest’ for you? Did you really think that, you, you _arsehole?!”_ John roared, headed back for the door. Tears were streaming down his heated cheeks; now his voice was hitching and shoulders pricking in upset. In outrage.

Simon dashed over, stopping him from leaving, in a cringe fuelled ‘hand atop of the doorknob’ moment. “What? What did I do, Johnny? Why are you actin’ so… not you?”

John shrugged him off, pivoting around to press his back against the door frame. His eyes were alight in anger, tears coursing down his cheeks in fear. In betrayal, in disgust: Simon didn’t know which.

“You think, after all we had… had been through together, Simon, that… that you—”

“—What? For the love of Christ, Johnny, what?!”

John inhaled an ever so shaky breath, tickling Simon’s cheeks. Simon retreated, motioning to the table. John didn’t follow. Instead, he stayed rooted to the wall, shaking, cheeks flushing with their oh! _Tainted Love._

“John, please, for the last time. What is it—”

John roared out a vicious cry, toppling the filing cabinet beside him. Simon upped in surprise, endless papers crashing to the floor, watching the man’s blood boil before him.

“You did not thought, Simon, to tell me…” He panted, still screaming through it. “That you… you… bastard! You are _married?!”_

Simon’s heart sank.

“Yeah, married! To that, that… fuck, that _whore_ you is here to… to _save?!”_

John shrieked, knees giving way. The freedom fighter hit the floor with a thud, body convulsing with his tears. Simon watched him, clutching aimlessly at the sporadic photos and files John had toppled over.

“And you think, you think you can— sheiße! One can just walk into _my_ operation, use _my_ supplies, use _my_ people to get dein, your… your _wife_ back?!”

Right by his feet lay the documents, exposing him and his wife. He and Yasmin, in holy matrimony.

“Right there… Yasmin. _Le. Bon!_ ” He ground out, surely crunching his back teeth.

**_If I had a photograph of you,_ **

Simon knelt down to the folder, it’s incriminating contents already out in the world. He clasped a photo of the two of them snuggled in tight, posing at the steps of the registry office.

**_Or something to remind me._ **

John’s cries began to soften, though his voice was still shaky as he spoke. His skin flushed with his outrage, he backed Simon off him as he tried to rise to his feet alone.

“Why didn’t…” John started, panting. “Why did you not _tell_ me? Tell Renée?! I can almost understood if you, you know, could not tell her; but me?”

Simon stood still, breath hitching as the tears pricked at his lids. _Not now._

**_I wouldn’t spend my life just wishing._ **

“Why Simon? Why? Did what we did mean nothin’ to you? Last night? Last week? You should know I do _not_ sleep around… not with, you know...” John’s gaze dropped to his boots, he began to retreat. “The _enemy_.”

The agent’s eyes flashed, a fire crossing them. “You had me _tied up_ in your apartment, three days after we first met!” Simon called out, catching his shoulder. “I’m not, you know I’m _not_ the enemy! You said it yourself, after untying me.”

This time, John didn’t buck him off. Nor did he punch him.

**_I wouldn’t spend my life just wishing._ **

“She’s not, we’re not… shit, Johnny. Please, let me explain.” Simon waggled the folder in-front of his face, various documents falling free. Some stating ‘Yasmin Le Bon’ and others ‘Yasmin Parva—’

“Fuck it.”

He watched John visibly give in, body hunching. Though he hadn’t known John for very long, a mere two and a half weeks, Simon could tell that he really wasn’t much of a fighter. When it came to himself, that is. The man was easily lead, easily persuaded, which made him incredibly vulnerable. He just wanted to fit in, and to make others happy with what he could offer. John wasn’t very educated either, yet he was a real creative soul. He had an eye for the visuals, and yet he couldn’t see the finer details. Though once the man set his mind to something: he was determined to get it. To achieve, not to fail.

Simon was sure that John didn’t realise how much of his heart he really wore on his ‘New Moon’ patch covered arm. How much of his heart, Simon wanted for life.

The agent turned the brunette bodily, watching John’s shaky hands immediately retreat. His face was stained in his upset, cheeks a deep shade of cherry red. His cherry ice cream smile was no more.

“Please John, sit. Let me grab you some water.”

“Verpiss dich!”

“You what?”

John raised a hand, stopping him. Instead, he reached into his inner coat pocket to retrieve a flask. John took a long swig, tossing his liquor back forcefully.

“Okay. _Okay!_ John, I think—” John simply raised a finger, telling him to hush. He was still drinking. “Oh-okay! John, freakin’ _stop_ it!” Simon bat the flask away, shaking it. It was near empty.

“Fag?” John coughed out, wiping the little dribble from his lips.

“You what?!”

“Zigaretten, bitte?” He groaned, miming lighting up. “Ich muss dann rauchen.”

“Oh smoke… no, I’m out.”

“Fick mich.”

_Fuck you, too._

Simon placed the flask down atop the table, further away from John, choosing to crouch beside it himself. Simon took hold of John’s shaking hands, slipping his red gloves from him. His hands were sweating, palms clammy. And still, Simon didn’t bat him away.

John stormed out. Simon let him go.

***  
  


Leaning back against a wall, head tipped low and cigarette in hand; Simon was approached. Eyed over. Handed his intel, left alone to study it. Together they were cracking the case, moving mountains.


	11. I Don’t Know Who’s Fooling Who

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Talk Talk’s ‘Renee.’ 💕

Tapping into the phone line was a new low, so Simon didn’t bother calling her first. He hadn’t caught her at the best of times but she dropped all that she was doing to invite him in. To pour him a drink, to comfort him.

  
“You’re a model, and you’re looking _damn_ good.”

He was shaking as he sat atop of her bed, shirt unbuttoned to the belt, sleeves rolled high, hair rumpled and eyes turning glassy. Renée’s corseted figure loomed over him, with a sly look backing the fire in her eyes. Handing Simon a whiskey, she crawled in beside him, enveloping him in her arms. She was dressed in a silken babydoll and a flowing sheer dressing gown with a frilled collar. Her long, lean legs were clad in white fishnet stockings, and she was wearing low cream heels.

  
“I’d like to take you home, that’s understood.”

She hadn’t had time to change from her photoshoot, Simon hadn’t given her the chance. She was perfect. She was _ravishing._

How could Simon refuse?

Renée’s smooth fingertips crept down his front, helping Simon to slip his shirt free from his shoulders. He shrugged himself out of the fabric, out of his vest, as his tanned chest caught the low buttery light. His golden chain glimmered as she fingered it, clutched it tight.

By doing so, she unveiled a large slash right underneath his left pec. The cut was deep, having healed that way. Simon saw her frown, pointing to it. He didn’t need to say the words out loud: _bullets lead a tiny lead residue in your body with every hit._ She knew that, soft fingertips skirting past it.

Taking a sip of his drink, Simon slinked up to the bed and crooked his finger, beckoning Renée up to meet him. Cocking a blonde brow, smirking harder, Renée followed with a purr. Together, they rested up against her tattered headboard, she had barely managed to clean up from when her place had been tossed last week; it probably would be again anyways. Simon didn’t mind, he was ever so at peace to see her working and wearing makeup again. To see her bruises begin to face, to see her cherry ice cream smile.

“To Yassie.”

They clinked glasses and got to talking, Simon resting a tender hand on her thigh. Their legs intertwined, fishnet on leather, brushing teasingly.

“ _Yasmin_.” Simon agreed, taking a sip. He scoffed, the liquor burning down his throat. “Fuck! That shit’s good.”

“ _Stolichnaya_. Russian Vodka. John’s favourite.” Renée nodded in approval, taking a long drink herself.

“And you know so, how? What, you tried to poison his drink or something?”

She simply smirked, shutting him up.

Simon’s voice dropped low, placing his glass on the bedside table beside him. Turning back to Renée, his eyes flickered over her curvy body, enrapt in fine white lace. Her corset was stunning, tied tight. Her perky breasts were snug, now spilling out ever so slightly as she leant precariously on one side.

“We have to talk, Ren.”

“That we do, yes.” She agreed, placing her glass down. “Was ist lös mit dir?”

Simon swallowed thickly, eyes fleeting down her body instead of staying on her face. “It’s John… he knows.”

“Knows?” She purred, lightly skirting her fingertip across his chest.

“Knows, about Yasmin.”

“Knows _what_ about Yasmin? That she is in prison? That she is waiting for you?”

“About… bloody hell.” Simon glanced down, her fingertip was circling round his pec, in an ever so soothing motion. “About, Ren, she’s my _wife_.”

Renée’s crimson painted fingertip stopped moving abruptly, and came to rest back on the bed. Simon grasped her hand, bringing her in closer, easing Renée to lie across his chest. Simon enveloped her frame in his arms, needing to keep her close. Needing to keep anyone close, as his closest ally.  
  


“He freaked out. I mean, I don’t blame him. I should’ve told him sooner… It’s just, I didn’t expect it? He just sprung it up on me the other night, and it freaked him the fuck out!” He babbled. “This wasn’t meant to be personal; why should it matter? Why does John even care?”

“Did he, Simon, did he break up with you? Is that how you said it?”

“Break up… What? There’s nothin’ between us that needs breaking up.”

Renée craned her neck to see his face, now resting her head in Simon’s lap. “Uh-huh.” She sniggered, “Sure.”

Renée wasn’t one to beat around the bush, she wasn’t one to keep him hanging when it concerned him. The look on her face said it all, screaming to Simon that she knew. She knew everything that had happened. He wouldn’t need to explain himself, unless…

“Charley, do not _hate_ me but—”

The hand he hadn’t realised was running idly through her golden hair stopped, stuttered. Simon stared back down at his fellow agent, as the – could he even say – _guilt_ crossed her face.

Renée had ‘a tell’ look. It would surely be her downfall.

“ _I_ tipped him off. John needed— he _deserved_ to know.”

“What?!” Simon blurted, with a screech. “You told… you sent… blimey, what?!”

Renée rolled her light blue eyes, before raising to seated. She span back around, crawling back up to the headboard. Pressing a soft kiss to Simon’s cheek, he flushed deeper, pulse racing and cheeks colouring. He wasn’t enraged, nor could he be mad. Just in shock.

“You’re welcome.”

She had saved him from having to reveal himself in a way Simon wasn’t so sure he could. To John, at the very least.

“This was never meant to get _personal_.” He groaned, tossing his head into his hands. “Why am I letting it happen?”

Renée’s sigh was long and hearty, breath tickling his neck. “I know Charley, I know. I know you didn’t meant to… liebt er. _Love_ John but—”

“—But nothing!” Simon’s head shot up, he was blinking and breathing rapid. “Wait, what?! I don’t… I don’t fuckin’…” _Love John?_

“Charley—”  
  


“— No, no Ren, no. You’re off your marbles. I don’t… I can’t… this’ll never work! I’ll be here for three weeks maximum…” He stuttered, holding back his rain. “It doesn’t matter what I feel! No asshole falls in love on this job, I’m not gonna… no! Shit. I can’t.”

“Charley, you know it cannot last.” The stern look crossing her angelic face was piercing through his soul. Crushing his heart, snapping it in two. “You is smart, I envy that.” Her voice drifted off, shoulders slumping.

“Envy? How so?”

Renée swept back her fallen fringe, turning back to face him. Her eyes were glossing over, she was hastily trying to cover herself with her gown. Her body was closing in on her, her body was closing in on itself from Simon.

“You _never_ fall in love, in this job.” She spoke bluntly, voice stern. Her gaze fell to the sheets, she was searching for Simon’s hand. “Personal relationships… cannot allow.”

Simon enveloped her fingertips in his palm, bringing her hand up to kiss it. To kiss her knuckles. Renée hummed softly, as Simon dropped their fingertips. He knew exactly what she meant. How foolish they both were to get caught up in…

“You _love_ him, don’t you? Tell me that.”

Simon’s exhale was shaky, he trained his tears blue gaze onto her own. Her bottom lip was trembling, her body was shaking as she took another long drink.

“I…” He breathed. “I don’t know. I don’t think so?”  
  


“You do love him, I can tell. You’re just unsure about being with a man again. You’ve been hurt pretty bad, correct?”

Simon bit into his bottom lip, really not liking how those words sounded. “This isn’t personal Ren, whatever I have or don’t have with John. Don’t make it personal.” He growled.

“Mein Gott, Charley, it’s personal. I’m so _sorry_.” She flung her body at him, Simon’s hands clutched her tight.

He fell apart on her shoulder, tears seeping through the lacy fabric.

Renée knew better than anyone, to never fall in love in this job. It only ends in heartache, pain, or death. And she too, was playing with fire. Simon’s fire; in holy matrimony till death do them part.

The minutes, the hour, passed in silence. Simon’s breathing was finally beginning to stable, the warming drink was coursing through his veins.

“So, shall we fuck or? _It doesn’t have to be serious._ ”

_May be right._

He chuckled heartily, easing himself free of her loving hold, ever so thankful for her breaking the tension.

_May be wrong._

“Uh, I mean…” Simon flushed, noting the sincerity as it crept its way across her face. “We could both use it, Ren.”

She giggled softly, pressing her hand up against his chest. “I make a joke, Simon!”

“Oh. Shit.” He blanked, guilt filling him. “Sorry Renée, I didn’t mean too… What’s that look for?”

Something dark was crossing in her face, her golden eyebrow arched and berry lips pursed. Her breasts were practically spilling out of that corset, Simon was already bulging in his leathers.

“You want too, don’t you?” Renée muttered, sapphire eyes locking onto Simon’s own. Her hand dipped down to her chest, fiddling idly with the lace ruffle of her bustier. Simon’s eyes were torn between her face and her breasts. Her face, her smooth curves, her lean legs, her face.

He nodded shyly, swallowing the last of any inhibitions.

“We would _both_ be cheating on your wife.” She breathed, fingertips coming to tease her own left breast; as Simon’s eyes began to cloud over. In lust. “Have you slept with John, yet?”

“No,” He hissed, feeling the agonising strain as it grew and grew. With images of John, and Renée, flooding his mind. “Fuck, just a… just a little rub and tug in the tub.” He purred, hands coming to rest against his crotch. “I’ve got him right where I thought I wanted him, you know how it is.”

Renée barked out a laugh, crimson fingertips trailing languidly down her side. “Will he be mad at us?”

His gaze fixed to the dainty lace enrapt around her thigh, before running right up to her crotch. The material was white, showing every stain and strain. He manoeuvred a hand down, to run back up and to tickle the inside of her left thigh. Testing the waters, Renée giggled softly as he pressed into a ticklish spot, before groaning as his fingertips ghosted over her—

“Fuck! Simon…” She roared, eyes slipping closed, hips buckling upwards.

_Again, with a woman?_

Renée needed him. He needed her.

“This doesn’t concern him. So no, John can’t be freaking mad.” He groaned, one hand slipping down his zip, the other massaging her warmth through the moist lace underwear.

“Who… wh- _who_ do _you want,_ Simon?” Renée answered her own question as out her perfect breasts spilled, nipples erect and begging Simon to twist them.

“ _Fuck!_ ” He screeched, feeling the familiar warmth trickle down his hot fingertips.

_Yes, again with a woman._

Simon helped her clamber into his lap, straddling him. Renée’s soft lips descended hotly to his neck, Simon’s hips snapped upwards, grinding roughly to meet hers. He cried out, as Renée’s fingertips clasped at his shoulders. Blissed out as her hips slammed down, kissing over her left mound, and her lace corset began to unravel.

_I Do What I Do to have_ — “You.”


	12. Who Am I To Disagree?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Eurythmics’ ‘Sweet Dreams.’

Leaning down, Simon placed a light feathery kiss to Renée’s forehead, sweeping away her fallen fringe. Together they lay enrapt in her soft grey sheets, her tan body blanketing his own. Simon held her tight as she lay a hand on his chest, creeping ever closer to his chain.

Renée turned to face him, grasping the sheets to frame them both. Simon’s glance was heavy, eyes bleary and clouding over in his afterglow.

“Sleeping with me… it helped, did it not? You know, you want a _man_ now, right?”

Simon didn’t have to answer verbally.

She chuckled into his neck softly as he spoke. Voice near breathless, voice ever so beautiful. “Was it like _that,_ with my wife?”

Renée burst out into bubbly laughter, brandishing her best front page worthy smile. “… She’s better.”

“Really?! Bullshit.” He sniggered, easing her up so they could sit side by side. “It’s better with Yasmin, because you love my Pebbles.”

Renée hummed her understanding, topaz eyes twinkling. “It was amazing Charley. But it will be better for you, with John. You love him.”

“Amazing, huh?” She nodded, chuckling. “Well, I figured I’d have to prove myself again so!”

“That you absolutely do. Again?” She cocked a brow, tongue darting out to caress her bottom lip. Simon gulped thickly, feeling that familiar prick of heat down below. “ _Again_.” Renée confirmed with cheek, giving him a sideways glance.

Her deft hands were sneaking down his torso. Down to his hips, igniting fires in their ticklish wake. He groaned hotly, thrusting up into her teasing touch, sapphire eyes flashing in desire, pretty mouth spewing filth.  
  


***  
  


Following the figure down into the bunker, together they studied it. The entryways, the passcodes. The lorry loads, the getaway route. Nodding to them, Simon handed back the intel in trade for the goods. For the gold, to report back.

***  
  


“ _Maximum big surprise, your smile is something new_.” Simon breathed, clasping their hands together. He paused a moment, knowing John was studying him through his own confusion. With a small smile, Simon continued, voice growing with every word. “ _I pull my shirt off and pray. We’re sacred and bound, to suffer this heatwave. Pull my shirt off and pray_.”

The man he intended to serenade’s shoulders pricked, the man he intended to explain himself too shivered bodily. Slowly, Simon gulped, they pulled themselves away from the computer; the infamous green _La Luna La Luna_ on the screen. Eyes aflame, nostrils flaring, they turned to face Simon.

Simon inhaled sharply, taking a cautious step forward. “ _Maximum big surprise, your smile is something new_.” Simon inhaled sharply, taking another cautious step forward. “C’mon you Hacker, look at me.”

Together, they were bathed in the neon green haze, binary code and glitches reflecting in both eyes. The Hacker, took a long drag of his cigarette, letting it go, before tossing it straight at Simon’s chest. He could only snort, crushing out the pulsing cigarette with his heel.

“ _We’re comin’ up on Re-Election Day…_ ”

The Hacker grunted in reply, pawing for more cigarettes. They lit up, Simon smacked it away. Instead, he lurched forward, grabbing the bastard by the collar, slamming their lips together. They jumped in surprise, kicked his shin to retaliate. Simon didn’t break away, kissing them harder, yanking them by the auburn hair to the angle he knew they would like.

Feeling a crucial need for air pricking at him, Simon eased himself away. He didn’t travel far, pressing his forehead up against that of The Hacker; both breathing heavily.

“We need to talk, Johnny. Please, forget your idiotic pride and just _listen_ to me, okay?”

John’s bleary gaze fell to their interlocked hands, shadows brushing up against his side. Simon didn’t budge. “Pull… diene Hemd?”

“No, it’s a lyric. I’m not taking my shirt off, don’t worry.”

“Oh, you disappoint.” He grumbled, turning away from Simon. Facing his computer again, John paused momentarily as he thought over his code. He stepped closer, hands hovering shiver the keys before stopping himself. “Wait, you write songs, also? Is there anything you could not do?” He grunted, over his shoulder.  
  


“John, listen to me. I know you’re mad, you have every right to be mad. But Pebbles, err, _Yasmin_ , she’s my wife in…” Simon paused, as John tensed, physically awaiting the blow. The man before him was trembling, whimpering, sensing this was it. For whatever the hell ‘it’ was for them.

“Do not, you know, _start_ with me now.” He chortled, fingers now teasing the computer keys. “I think you should just go away, Simon. Do not make me feel worse.”

“She’s my wife—”

“— Stop it, please.”

“… Bollocks,” Simon didn’t care, he would be making himself heard. “John, she’s my wife ‘in name’ only. Do you know what that means?”

“She’d be there to… when you go home.”

_The ‘Honeypot.’ How cruel a game, to play. They’re on the hunt, they’re after you._

“John, she married me for protection. For security. So we could find a house together, so we could live together and be _safe_ away from work. She understands why I sleep with a gun underneath my pillow—”

“— You _what?!_ You had… you have slept in my—”

“Yes, now hush. Do you have any idea how hard it is for a single female agent to get a place alone here? To cross the border without being interrogated for leaving her supposed partner and family behind?”

John shook his fallen fringe from his eyes, a barely audible ‘no’ dropping from his pinky lips.

“John, she was in danger. So was I. We married each other back in Oxford, to help each other out.” He tried to explain in a way John could understand. Simple, plain English, he hoped would get through. “I would die, you hear? I would _die_ before I let anything happen to her.” Simon growled. “I love her so much, she means the world to me. She’s the only family I have… well, her and my brothers. I would die before I let anything happen to her, before anything happens to them all. Why do you think I’m doing all this tat, huh? I’m here to get her back. She needs me. And, goddamnit, _I need her._ ”

“But… her papers say both. She never said she was, you know, ‘Le Bon’ to me. She lied.” John sniffled, needing to swipe away another tear. Simon rose to standing, brandishing a tissue.

“John, we’re married ‘in name’ only. It doesn’t surprise me if she didn’t change all her paperwork. Do you have any idea just how many bullshit documents we have? How many passports, fake ID’s, real ID’s, Swiss accounts, VISA’s, EU card bollocks and shit?!”

John again shook his head.

Simon waved him off. “That does not matter. What does is that we, Johnny, we love and care for each other deeply, but I’m not… Christ. I’m not ‘in love’ with her. You see what I’m saying?”

John took the tissue from him, noisily blowing his nose. Simon barked out a little laugh; John needed another tissue.

“She’s my best friend. We’ve been through so much together. So many _bullets,_ break in’s… you name it.” Simon added, an abrupt laugh slipping free. “But John, baby, listen. There’s an attraction sure, I mean… she’s a stunner, it’s no wonder Renée… erm, you know. Whatever. But we, me and Yassie, _aren’t_ in love. Our relationship isn’t physical anymore—”

“—Anymore?!” John stated, sounding ever so defeated.

“It’s nothing like that. I love her like… err, ooh! Like Nick loves his eyeliner! Or Andy, and his beer. Or your love for _Chic_ and their groovy music—”

“Was?! How do… how do you know that?”

Simon sniggered, choosing to not tell John about having pawed through his ‘snuck in from the West’ record collection, when the man had (poorly) scrambled his eggs the other morning.

“Can we stick to the point?!” _I’m on the hunt, I’m after you._ “I think, I think I… shit!” _Scent and a sound, I’m lost and you’ve found me._ Simon trailed off as John’s bloodshot eyes gaped at him. _I howl and I whine, I’m after you._

“No, Simon.” He beckoned, wiping the last of the water from his face. The water only now had the agent realised, had burst the banks. “Let’s not. Do you understand not that… fuck, she is your everything. You get to go home to her, she will love you in ways I could never. So stop it, go, go get her, and do not toy with my feelings more. Please.”

John stuttered and stammered through his words, face and flushing red with his tears. His embarrassment. Simon was truly taken aback. Never did he think that not only could John be jealous but, who was he kidding, John was envious of them. Of their relationship, of their love and friendship.

That, in theory, Simon should have somebody to come home too.

“Go, please Simon.” He stammered, bottom lip quivering, body shaking. “Just leave. _Verlassen_ bitte.”

Simon didn’t move.


	13. You Ask If I Love You, Well What Can I Say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Thompson Twins’ ‘Hold Me Now.’ Ready for the feels?

“Johnny, please listen to me. What I have with Yasmin… it doesn’t matter.” Biting the inside of his cheek, the agent was determined to stifle the pricking behind his eyes, the heat crossing his cheeks. “I don’t need a woman John. I came here to work, I did not come here to fucking fall in love, alright? It didn’t need to get personal and, for the love of Christ I— what?”

John’s brows furrowed, his pinkish lips pursed. Cocking his head, that same curl of brunette hair spiking up any which way it wanted; John questioned him by giving him pause. John made him believe.

“You what?”

“What did you just said, Simon?”

The realisation slapped the agent like a club to the back of the head. John now stood before him, breath growing ragged, tears stopping their fall.

**_Hold Me Now._ **

“I think… Johnny, I think. No. I’m almost _sure_ that…”

**_Warm my heart._ **

“Yes?”

**_Stay with me._ **

“I’m not in love with her, I’m _in love_ with, y’know, with...”

**_Let ‘loving’ start._ **

“You! Moron.”

John visibly startled. His dopey jaw dropped open; he was blinking rapid. Cocking his head, John tried to speak. Simon held his breath, cheeks flushing bright. His own eyes were watery, he blinked back his tears. He held back his rain.  
  


“You…” John began, pointing, astonished. “Liebt mich?” He nodded, trying to understand his own words. “You have not saw me in glasses yet?!”

“What? Yes I have— _no_ I have not!” _In grainy photographs from MI6, yes, Nigel._ “You have glasses?”

“As you say: shut up. You… fuck, you _love_ me? How can you love me? Nobody love— _loves_ me, why would you…?”

Simon stepped back, turning away from him to hastily swipe that bastard tear. John’s hand caught his shoulder, urging Simon to turn back to him.

“I do. Don’t need a reason. Ich liebe dich John.”

“You…” John blinked druggedly, before a small smile threatened to cross his face. “Simon, you can said that?”

“Well,” Simon giggled. “It isn’t that hard a saying! It’s rather universal.”

“Shut up.”

“No. Ich liebe dich John. JT. Tigger. Nige—”

“— _Shieße!_ Ich liebe dich auch.” Whether he was cursing Simon’s words or his own feelings; neither man did know.

**_Let ‘loving’ start._ **

He did urge Simon back towards him, in silent questioning. John answered with force, slamming his lips into Simon’s. Threading his hands through those auburn locks, Simon reeled John in closer to nibble lightly at his lips. They gracefully parted, Simon sucked deeply into his mouth, before pulling away with a laugh.

“Was ist…?” John queried, face flushing a whole new shade of adorable.

“Holy crap.” _I love you, and you love me._

John simply stared, intently watching him. A small smile caressed his smooth face, doe eyes lighting up.

_I can’t fall in love. Not on the job._

“You’re ‘bout as easy as a nuclear war.”

_That’s not how you play the game._

“Was?!” John hollered, laughter ringing free. “Simon you… mein Gott! You should not have said that, here!” He giggled, bringing his hand up to cover his cherry red cheeks.

_No fucker falls in love, in this business. It’s virtual suicide._

Simon could have bat his hand away, instead he reeled it in, to place a kiss to John’s knuckle. Feeling the man melt, Simon couldn’t diminish the feeling of his stomach in knots, of his tears still wanting to fall. Of his own heart’s elation now soaring in his chest.

_But if it’s for him…_

Moments passed in bliss; the thick clouds around them both parted. Simon chanced his luck, hoping to still have ‘his Johnny’ on side.

“I want to come back to you, John. Don’t be jealous of Yasmin, don’t be envious of what we have. Please, don’t think like that. You’re beautiful, you have a beautiful heart and soul and,” Simon swept at the fallen tear. “You make me happy. Isn’t that enough? Fertig?”

“Kein Neid?” Simon watched him physically debate it, fighting himself over what to say next. Whether to let Simon into his heart. Or to put up that final wall, another wall John himself wouldn’t be able to cross.

“Please John, give me another chance.”

He exhaled a deep breath, gaze falling to their hands. Simply, John leant forward to hold Simon’s palm in his own; leather brushing upon leather. “Kein Neid.” He confirmed, smiling softly.

Simon felt the worry visibly melt away, the weight was lifted from his shoulders. The longer John held his hand, the longer John cuddled him, the longer John ran his fingertips through his shaggy blonde hair. His thoughts of Yasmin could never be forgotten but, they couldn’t quite match this.

Their moments passed in near silence, both fighting for breath and to stifle more tears as they threaten to fall. John had looped his hands around Simon’s waist, Simon’s own around his back. John rested his heavy head atop of the agent’s left shoulder; right above the sliced chest.

“So,” Simon breathed, stopping to kiss John’s temple. “Are you still willing to help me, help me get my wife back?”

John scrunched his nose at those words, seemingly needing more time for that to settle in. He shrugged, “I am man of my word, Simon. I help you get back your wife.” He retreated, grip on Simon’s form slipping. He watched as John returned to the computer, the blearing green La Luna’s needing his confirmation.

Simon giggled in triumph. “Love you!”

“Oh, blow me.” John shot back, over his shoulder.

His blonde brows raised in haste. “D’ya even know what that means, Johnny?” The confusion crossing the freedom fighter’s face was ever so cute, Simon could barely hold in his laughter. “No, you do not—”

“—You Simon… suck on my Schwanz?” Simon’s laughter abruptly stopped. “Ha! Love you.”

Simon scoffed, before the giggles took over. “Well played, Herr Taylor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who’s interested, the whole ‘Hacker’ thing is inspired by John’s one of shot at acting in the 1985 TV science-fiction drama _Timeslip _. He randomly starred in this pilot episode alongside then girlfriend Virginia Hey. The programme was cancelled after said pilot aired in December 1985.__


	14. Sometime’s Love Can Be Mistaken, For A Crime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from George Michael’s ‘Father Figure.’

Taking a pew atop a box of fireworks, John almost lit up. Simon raised a brow and the freedom fighter almost jumped out of his skin, cackling, quick to put his cigarette out. Waving him over, Simon slid aside so John’s shadowy figure could carefully perch beside him. The agent tapped the side of the box, finding it to not be as hollow as he would’ve liked. Lenin knows how many explosives were surrounding them.

“You know John,” Simon began, hunting for his silhouette in the shadowy underground cellar. “I’ve been meaning to ask…”

John looked expectantly at him, all bundled up nice and tight. He simply nodded and that one damn curl of his that would not flatten waggled too, provoking a small giggle from Simon.

“Answer if you dare but, uh, how did you get into all this? The Ragged Tigers, I mean.”

The man before him visibly blanked; a look of surprise coating his pale face. A look that John could not hide behind his hand, nor cover with his ruby red woollen scarf.

Leaning forward, Simon embraced the younger man, silently urging him to answer. Leaning back, Simon ran a hand under the box, hunting for a latch. Though there was no pressure if John was not willing to spill. The man had spent years lying, calling his bluff, coming up with alibis so he could sneak away unnoticed. It would almost be foolish for John to reveal himself now, unless he absolutely trusted Simon. Trusted him with his life, rather than the end to it.

Simon swallowed thickly, as that jaw dropped open.

“I always knew that I, Simon, somehow I… I must, how you say, make my mark. It all started when my parents throw me out, and I live on the Straße… One day I met Nick, we are the best of friends. And he shown me an old leaflet. _Der Weiße Rose,_ die Jugendaufstandsgruppe. They was a youth revolt group from the Forties, a movement. But peaceful.”

“I brushed up on my history. They did what they had to do, those Munich University students, and yet just speaking out was enough of a thorn in Nazi sides.”

“Correct. So, I meet more of the men involved. I learn the cause, the cause of freedom… You know, I attend the GDR rallies, the Pressefreiheit Demonstrationen, I get beaten up and thrown in the back of a truck, I be in prison…” John shook his head, vividly reliving those brutal attacks as they inked their way into Simon’s memory. “I just knew, I had met my people. This is what I had to do.”

“Like a true calling, of sorts? Leaving it up to fate?” Simon helped him to explain.

“Ja, and we had three Taylors. What more could one ask for?”

Simon’s chuckled, then his brows knotted. He tried to get a handle on all the information, though a single detail was really pricking at him. “You said, you were thrown out?”

A fire crossed John’s beady eyes, and yet the man did not retaliate. “Yes. I was raised by strict Catholics and… well, here I am with you, holding your hand.” John motioned to their now interlocked fingers, sighing. “Mutti she, she became ever on edge when my Vater try to escape. We call it _Republikflücht_ – flee to the West. He tried first, try to build a life in the West before she came across with me.” John’s gaze dropped, as did his grip on Simon. “I was four oder five?”

“Did they make it?”

“Mutter never made it. And mein Vater, foolishly, came back. Came back for her. Why? I do not know. They are meant to be, you know? They live a life of… controlled solitude, now that I am not there.”

“Control… in a—”

“A Plattenbau, yes. They comply, the Stasi go... einfach— easy, sorry, go _easy_ on them.”

John’s voice was growing more timid by the second, he began to shuck himself free of Simon’s hold. Reluctantly, Simon let John go; rise to standing and begin to pace the small cellar. Packed to the brim with wooden boxes, cases of explosives ready to erupt with a single flame.

“I have seen Mutti…” He broke off, with a wistful sigh. “Nicht im… Sheiße. Four, five years? When I turned eighteen, that was it. Kein Kontakt, keine Musik, as she wanted.” He breathed, biting into his cheek to stifle the cries. “Simon, she, you know, she catched me... catch me with,” John exhaled sharply, now he was trembling. “With another man.”

“They kicked you out because, because you…” _Like men, too?_ “Are a rebel?”

“Mutti was a very important lady. She liebt der GDR, adores East Germany and the regime. She could not bear to have her only son, not see it the same. I am outcast. I want out, so out I— nein, out I _try_ to go.”

The look John shot his way screamed the answer to the question.  
  


“I become too invested in music. Got sad. My wrists. Started drinking and smoking too many… my wrists. Dreamed of getting across. Dreamed of making a change. Ending it, all of this. They could no… uh, _tame_ me. I had to go, go and try to live. But Simon,” John glared, face hardening. “This, mein Leben hier, this is no life. I can’t live like this, waiting to be locked up. Waiting for freedom. It bring pains.”

Simon watched him pace, voice beginning to gain momentum with every step.

“I had to make a change. I’m making that change. It be only small but, well, it is a step closer to…”

_Freedom. Love. Pride. Hope._

“Unity?” Simon posed, wistfully.

“Für unser Vereinigtes Deutschland. For our united Germany.”

Treading gently, “How have you coped for so long? Kept your hopes up, kept fighting?”

John tensed, shadowy figure growing more blurred. “I had too. You learn to _comply._ Be silent, be careful. You obey and do not get hurt, aber—”

“— But, what?”

A small, sly grin crept across the freedom fighter’s face. “I am no good at listening. I get hurt, I go down. Freedom. _You’ve got to give what you take._ ”

At that, Simon felt all the butterflies whirling about his stomach finally begin to settle. A small brandished his complexion, drawing John back over to him. Leaning down, John beckoned Simon to reach up, to catch his chattering lips in a warming kiss. They really had been down here much longer than needed, both were feeling the vile cold sinking in.

They parted with a sigh, a hum. John’s gaze was heavily lidded, his lips were shining, glistening.

“I am a rebel, Simon. I keep fighting.”

“You’re a ‘Rebel Yell’ in a Billy Idol jumper. You want more, more, _more_.” Simon motioned to his chest with a chuckle.

Rolling his eyes, John dodged his statement. Sighing, “Haben Sie noch Fragen?”

Biting into his bottom lip, the agent juggled his words. Juggled them a lot, before simply deciding to rip the plaster off. “Do you miss your parents? Do you really need their validation?”

“Vali…?”

“Them to _agree,_ I mean. With you, your lifestyle, and what you are doing.”

John glared back at him, he was shivering and yet, Simon could tell the fire rushing through his veins was now beginning to boil on his skin. “There is nothin’ worse than, than no have your Mutter’s approval. I disappoint her for years. I disappoint now.” He growled out, shame sinking in deeply. “I disappoint Vater by being no good with cars. I am no army man. Ich bin, erm, how you said, _failure_ because my group, they is not heard. And die Mauer, it has…”

_Not fallen._

Simon sighed, though his fists were clenching. “It takes a city, not one man. It takes an army, not one man. It takes all the Western powers, John please; to see the Iron Curtain go up and to fall. _It’s time to take the pressure off._ ”

“How could I live mit mineself if I do not at least _try,_ Simon?”

John, with the weight of the Communist world crushing his bony shoulders, willed himself to stop talking under the agent’s command. Simon didn’t ask anymore.

Minutes, an hour later, when Simon deemed the heat to merely simmer, “You know if you could cross that wall tomorrow, what would be the first thing you would do in the Western world? Get plastered, watch a porno in the middle of the shop, hire and crash an Aston Martin? Visit IKEA, have a Big Mac, drink Coca-Cola? Snort cocaine off some hairy guy’s chest?”

John chuckled, though only for a moment. “I would kiss the ground. Play my bass as loud as it got. Cocaine?… Ich weiß nicht. I did want to visit the ‘Blitz’ club in London, aber nein. It’s much too late. Watch ‘Top Of The Pops’ legalisch on a real Western television set. Oh, and carve away at that bastard Mauer. Paint it.”

“Graffiti?” John nodded.

“How you said, Simon: shove it up Honecker’s arse.” Again John nodded, with much more enthusiasm.

The warmth pooling in Simon’s stomach was not one to be ignored. He could’ve sworn, he could listen to John talk about his work, the cause, forever. He was so passionate, so determined, and did not shy away from his own personal fight. That was truly something Simon admired about the man the most.

“Someday Simon. Someday I too will be free. We all will. Leider haben wir keine Wahl… we have no choice, unfortunately. Heute ist nicht dieser Tag.”

Finally, Simon felt himself begin to unclench. “Unfortunately John, you are right. Today is not that day.”

***  
  


“Can I bum a light?” Simon mimicked lighting his cigarette, motioning to the stranger beside him. “It’s Roger, right?”

He nodded, jay black quiff waggling, not quite looking at Simon as he pawed through his pockets. Together the two men sat at the table: documents; folders; wires and microphones at the ready.   
  


“Here.” Roger leant forward, motioning for Simon to follow.

“You speak English?” Simon asked, mentally kicking himself for doing so. “Course you do, sorry that was stupid of me.”

Roger simply nodded, choosing to bury his face back in his files and folders.   
  


“You don’t say much, do you?” Roger shrugged. Simon pouted. “Mind if I ask, how long you’ve been here for? Serving with The Ragged Tigers?”


	15. The Sunken-In Eyes, And The Pain In His Cries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from A-ha’s ‘Cry Wolf.’

Kissing the top of her tousled golden hair, smoothing down the strands, Simon helped her up to seated, reeling her in. The sheets artfully framed both glistening nude and tan bodies; an ash tray lay before them both. Simon tapped the last of the stray nicotine, putting out his cigarette.

“There’s no word on Nick, nor Andrew. That, uh, Roger; the one who barely speaks... he’s been here a little while, one of the more recent Taylors to join and all. He’s waitin’ for when it’s safe to escape, his bride is waiting for him in Italy.”

“Italia? It be a dream, to go there.”

The agent forced down the feeling of guilt, he didn’t need to understand the man’s pain but it was nagging at him. Like a cracking record, the background music couldn’t quite be ignored. “Has John ever told you why Ren, why he never tried to… oh, what’s that word?”

“ _Republikflücht_.” Renée breathed, pressing her nose into Simon’s strong chest. “Try to escape.”

Placing a hand on her thigh, Simon stroked her soft skin idly whilst he gathered his thoughts. “Yeah, that. If he hates the GDR enough, why hasn’t he bloody tried to escape? Why set off fireworks? Do you know why, why he didn’t _take the dice?_ It seems awfully odd, don’t you think?”

“You said it yourself. _Take the dice._ ” Renée’s sigh was long, and hearty. Crawling back up to seated, the agent pulled herself away from Simon so they weren’t touching anymore. A little, or a lot. “Simon, he did never tell you about…” He watched her visibly shake the thought away, face growing hot.

“No, what?” He stated, crawling up to his knees to follow her. Simon leant in to press a soft kiss to her forehead, before bringing her back underneath the blankets and into his arms. “Rio, what’s goin’ on here?”

“His parents tried to flee, Simon. Right after Nigel was born. They… his father was shot at. His mother’s body was never found.”

Simon’s jaw dropped. It took him several tries to ask, “Wh- _what?!_ What the shit happened… John, how did he…?”

“Charley, he was… I don’t know, one or two? He was bought back, kept in possession of the state. Raised in an orphanage. They never found his mother, nor does he have any family close by. Recently he learned he has ein Cousin in the West. That is all.”

Simon’s eyes were wide, he was breathing heavily trying to get a handle on all this.  
  


“Nick took him in, when he were… twelve and Nick ten? Nick’s parents too tried to fled with John, they did not make it.” Renée didn’t give him the chance to speak, what did Simon even have to say.

  
“He never told me any of this,” Simon muttered, biting deeply his bottom lip. “Why did he lie?”

Renée just stared at him, cool gaze zeroing in on Simon’s watery own. “Why should he? He has spent his whole life on the run. He lies, he is confused. He wonders whether he can trust you. Simon, has he played his Ziggy Stardust record für Sie?”

Nodding, “Yeah, he even bought the ‘Jean Genie’ single to my place.”

“A you a fan of David Bowie?”

“Yes, absolutely. Why do you ask?”

Renée sighed heavily. “His mother’s name war Jean. He plays it daily, it’s his favourite. Her Lieblingsband were The Beatles, John loves them too.”

“My God…”

“He’s been hurt a lot in his life. He is not as strong as he would like you to think.”

“Yeah, yeah I got that. He definitely puts on a show.” Simon admitted, tossing his head into his hands. “Christ.”

“He needs taking care of, he needs _ally._ Remember?”

Renée’s earlier warning flashed up in his mind. How could he have forgotten? Simon didn’t say anymore, what more was there to say?  
  


***  
  


Fiddling with the equipment, Simon almost soldered his damn finger off when he heard the frantic knocking at the door; the roaring kicks and screams. Simon dashed to the front of the apartment, unlatching the door with uneasy fingers.

John’s body was thrown in, crashing face first to the floor.

“What the… the hell is this, you?” _Shit!_

Simon was standing face to face with a Stasi guard. Blonde hair and blue eyes, a stern face. Two gloved hands began to brush off the dirt, the remnants of the degenerate, before kicking the freedom fighter forward.

Without another word, only a harsh stare which bored through to Simon’s soul; the guard left them, heeled boots thumping across the stone floors.

Simon waited a moment for those footsteps to dissipate, panting harshly, fire igniting within his core. He hauled John inside, slamming the door shut. Frantically, he checked John over. Quivering fingertips ran all over his bony body, hunting for bruises, lashes. Quivering fingertips ran all through his messy hair, brushing away the first of many tears.  
  


John was flustered, cheeks flushing. He pawed at Simon, letting the agent lead him to the sofa. Together they collapsed; John hadn’t stopped shaking.

“Johnny, what the shit happened?”

_They tossed your place; they trussed you up. Will you tell me that?_

“Der Stasi…” He began, sniffling. “Is fine, I,” John paused, swiping at his nose. “It happen… four, five times? Is okay I, I’m used to it.”

_No, you won’t tell me that._

Simon was fuming, a little more so with every word John tried to utter. “You mean they, they just… fuck, that’s normal here, isn’t it?”

_You’re a wanted man, of course it’s fucking normal._

John nodded, sagely.

_They don’t have enough evidence to lock you up, yet._

Bringing John into an embrace, Simon tried to shush him and comfort him, letting the freedom fighter melt into his arms. “John, why did he bring you here? Did he ask for someone to keep you in the clear?”

John again nodded, sagely.

“But why me? What can I do? I’m not a permanent resident, Johnny. You know my German is shocking.”

John wormed his way out of Simon’s hold. “I usually ask for Nick… aber, dann, I trust you, Simon.” John wasn’t looking at him, as he bit deeply into his bottom swollen lip. “I know es ist stupid but I… wir brachen dich. We _need_ you.”

Simon swallowed thickly upon seeing the familiar prick of those shoulders. Another cruel wave of tears were ready to burst their banks. John needed to let go. He needed to explain, the reason for all this strange behaviour.


	16. I’m Drowning In Your Soul, I’m Blinded By Emotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Münchener Freiheit’s English rendition of _Ohne Dich, _‘Everytime.’ The German sounds far better!__

“Relax! Remember: he likes space, reading, singing— but he’s no singer, painting, Western clothes, Western music, Indian food… oh, and _you_.” Renée cupped Simon’s cheek, brandishing her million dollar smile. “Dinner is awaiting you in the oven, and my _Freiheit_ record is in the player. You _owe_ me Le Bon, big time.”

“Is another shag in order?” He joked, as she leant in.

“It might!”

“Hell yeah.” He agreed, keeping their fire alight.

Pressing a quick kiss to his cheek; Renée could only giggle as Simon blew a raspberry – poorly hiding his nerves.

“Gross! Now Charley,” The pad of Renée’s thumb crossed his cheek, swiping away the lipstick cherry coating Simon’s lens. “You be _fine_. He really likes you, he deserves this. And so do you.”

“And you really like me.” He leered, chuckling through his words.

“I like…” Renée cocked her head, bringing her finger up to her lips. Schooling her face into a quizzical look, she could barely keep a straight face as Simon giggled again. “Your cock. It’s been awhile, I’ll admit.”

“My wife’s strap on’s aren’t doing it enough for ya, that you had to have me another night?!”

“Oh hush!”

Stepping out of the front door, Simon stopped her by grabbing her shoulder. “And you want the enemy to be happy? You want Johnny being with me?”

She hummed. “We is— _are_ not… enemies, nein, I don’t think. Not friends... aber nein, we are not enemies.” With a twinkle in her eye, Renée whirled around on her heel and trot her way around the corner, taking three steps before whirling back around. “Be thankful I no tell him: we fuck. You confess you love him. We come back here, and I make you both dinner.”

“Oh Rio Rio…” He shook the blonde fringe from his eyes, chuckling, “You better not!”

Renée blew a cheeky kiss, Simon caught it with a cackle. She disappeared from the agent’s sight in the nick of time. Simon swallowed down his batch of nerves, suddenly wishing he could keep flirting the night away with Renée. Laughing and joking. Knowing where he stood. The energy was so easy, so easy-going. Hearing those familiar footsteps and creaking leather boots, Simon stiffened. The butterflies fluttered faster in his stomach.

Boy, he was in and in _deep._

John had spent the day arranging the getaway trucks, planning the getaway routes that were safest for the horses. He had told Simon not to come, to much protest. Surely, his brain was fried, he wasn’t one known for his geography. The freedom fighter emerged from the other end of the corridor: face flushed; pulse rabbiting; fury in his eyes. He rambled endlessly, pushing straight past Simon to cross the threshold without second thought.

John stormed inside, talking too fast for any sane man to understand. Simon guided him to the sofa; the brunette plopped himself down mid ramble. Leaflets this, horses that... Simon chuckled at his fervour; how devoted to the cause he was.

Even though it was tearing the man up inside, even though it was bittersweet; Simon stopped him mid rant, with a hand on his leather clad knee.

John straightened up immediately, his face flushing deeper. Simon leant in to kiss him softly, nimble fingertips running through his auburn hair. Pulling away with a hum, a dashing smile coated the agent’s face, one that John matched with his own beautiful grin. He listened to Simon, following his breathing, as Simon calmed the man down.

“Welcome home.”

John perked up. “Home? I am stay here until my apartment is—”

“— Shush, shush JT... _Home_.”

Together they inhaled. Exhaled. Together they inhaled. Exhaled.

“I want you to _relax,_ we don’t need to worry about any of that tonight.”

“But Simon! In Morgen werden wir—”

Together they inhaled. Exhaled. Together they inhaled. Exhaled.

Simon hushed him, chuckling. “No, tonight we are gettin’ to know each other. We’re gonna wine and dine like kings. You can’t fight the commies on an empty stomach. And you’re going to shut the hell up; and love it.” _Let me love you._

The younger man startled, shielded gaze broadening.

“I want you to feel like… like, we’re on a… a date, the other side of the wall. Like, _we’re the Kids In America, oh woah. There’s a new wave coming,_ Johnny, _I warn ya!”_

The freedom fighter was giving in to his charm, cocking his head as John relented. He was wearing his glasses; thick rounded frames perched atop his petite nose — very _Nigel_. Simon couldn’t help but gape, gape fondly, he was seeing John’s ‘dreaded’ shades for the first time.

“Please JT, for me?”

He could’ve sworn: John had never appeared so beautiful to him in that moment.

“… Erm, sorry? I phased out a tad, there.”

John cocked his head, with a snigger. “ _We’re the Kids In America. Everybody live for the music go-round!_ I love Kim Wilde, I try copy her words… How did you knew?”

“You were wearing a shirt with her face on the other day! The Lichtenstein style portrait. I pay close attention.” Simon winked. John visibly melted. “And I saw your Billy Idol jumper, very nice.”

“Natürlich.”

“So, dinner? Goodie!” Simon upped immediately before John could answer, clapping, dashing off to the kitchen. The faint sound of John’s laughter hung in the air, the tension from before was dissipating. Simon couldn’t be more thankful. _Thanks Rio!_ Or maybe he could, opening the oven to a whoosh of hot steam. Her masterpiece. Knowing John was a fan of Italian cuisine, yet had a somewhat bland palette, he had enlisted the help of the best cook this side of the wall: Miss Simonsen.

She even had treated the pair to her (supposedly) famous butterscotch, with a delightful Danish twist Simon could barely wait to taste.

He dished up a steaming plate of potatoes, her diced garden salad, and a mouth watering slice of lasagne. He presented John with his dinner, before returning with a bottle of some damn fine imported stuff. The man’s eyes lit up, wine within his reach, before a mega-watt smile crossed his complexion.

John endlessly thanked Simon as the two tucked in. Huddled in close atop the sofa, trays on their laps, John devoured the lasagne, then opted for a second helping much to Simon’s glee.

“Mein Gott! You cock, too?”

“… Erm, yeah Tigger, I— wait, _what_?!”

John’s eyes grew timid, he furrowed his brows and pouted. “What? Oh, I said it wrong, didn’t I?”

“Did you…” A dopey smile crossed Simon’s face. “You mean… ‘kochen’ is to cook… oh. But yeah, I uh, I _cock_ too…” He waggled his brows, causing a bubbly giggling fit to erupt from the man before him. “You meant, do I ‘cook’ didn’t you, Johnny?”

“To cook.” He giggled in agreement. “Do you cook, too?”

“ _Absolutely!_ I mean, I _did_ rustle up this damn fine meal so…” John cocked his head, silently beckoning the man to spill. “I did not, no. I do cook though. I’m more of a seafood man, personally.”

“You nut.” John giggled, in between chomps.

Polishing off their plates, they treated themselves to a tipple. To a little action atop the sofa, warm mouths joining, tongues meeting.

The minutes progressed in absolute bliss. Just cuddling, holding each other, muttering sweet nothings, not wanting to let the other man go… At least until John managed to crawl free to use the bathroom. Totally ruining their moment!

Simon utilised that moment to do the dishes, gaze catching John’s cute little butt as he slinked past. He was quick to catch Simon’s lips in a closed kiss before John carried on back to the living room; surely awaiting Simon’s return with eager.

A few minutes later saw Simon creeping down the corridor. John wasn’t too far; the creaking floorboards amplified every step he took. Pausing, Simon peered around the final corner, grin crossing his face. There was a whir of tinkly music, a drum machine and synths, growing stronger by the second. An adorable vocal; albeit not too strong, trying to accompany.

“ _Ohne dich schlaf' ich heut Nacht nicht ein. Ohne dich fahr' ich heut' Nacht nicht heim_.”

Simon swallowed down his giggles, cocking a sly brow. He watched tirelessly, as the brunette slunk his way about the living room, idly pawing at any and all little treasures he could find. Inquisitive as ever - _the little shit_ \- John was.

Simon almost rolled his eyes, but that would’ve involved him not looking at John for that precious tenth of a second. Renée was absolutely right with her choice in music, he was caught in a synthy trance.

“ _Ohne dich komm' ich heut' nicht zur Ruh. Das was ich will bist du_.”

John was happily babbling along, hearing him singing in his native language was really quite striking. As was how he hit every note, struck every accent. It was truly a sound to marvel over; a demo track Simon wished he could record.

He could have; if this place was bugged. Which, it very well could be.

Simon watched, enthralled, as John came across his magazine stash. He had conveniently placed the Vogue Deutsch magazine Renée had left him, with her as the cover star, atop the rest. Her hair was teased back, galaxies were swimming intensely in her sapphire eyes. Her thick berry lips were parted, teasingly.

“ _Ohne dich schlaf' ich heut Nacht nicht ein. Ohne dich fahr' ich heut' Nacht nicht heim_.”

The reaction he drew from John, the man appeared lost in her icy blues, a longing gaze sweeping him: had Simon in a trance. Had John himself in a trance, to stumble over his words, to lose his timing… almost.

The agent optimised his moment and crept over, ready to ambush the target asset. Though Simon decided to give John and his magazine cover a moment longer in their euphoria.

“Ohne dich— ah!” John yelped, as Simon’s cheeky hands found their way around his skinny waist. Simon came to rest his head atop of John’s shoulder pad, pressing his chest up to that bony back, singing softly in the younger man’s ear. His lips tickled them; John squirmed beneath his touch. Further fuelling Simon’s fire, John’s shoulders relaxed, and he too placed his fingertips atop of Simon’s around his waist. Trapping himself there.

The agent wouldn’t have had it any other way.

“ _Every time you need me, I'll be here. Every time you leave me, I'll be near._ ” Simon breathed, chuckling through the lyrics lightly. “ _Every time you hold me like you do._ John, _I'm so in love with you_.”

He nibbled at John’s ear, provoking another gorgeous little fit of giggles. John kicked out, face flushing crimson. His dark eyes were sparkling in a way Simon had never known them too, showing John’s truly unadulterated joy through his music. Through Simon’s music.  
  
  


“Did you learned that, for me?”

“I _learnt_ that, yes, absolutely for you. It’s a gorgeous song Johnny. In both English and German, I really like it.”

“I don’t mean to ruin the uh… you know, uh—”

“— The _moment,_ yeah.” Simon chuckled, helping him out. “But?”

“You know those is not, uh, are not the text, Simon? That’s not what it translated too.”

With a scoff, “Try telling that to _Münchener Freiheit!_ There’s not a chance in hell ‘owneh dick’ means ‘every time.’ What even was their English track getting at?”

“Not that, no.” John jibed, hands coming to rest atop of Simon’s again. “It means ‘without you.’ I do want not to be _ohne dich,_ without you, Simon. Not tonight. Why? _Das was ich will, bist du…_ ” John breathed, and his voice was trembling. Simon clutched him tighter, pressing his soft lips to John’s throbbing temple. “What I want, is you.”

“I want you too, Johnny.” Simon could hear the smile within his own voice. He was in deep. They both were.

“Just… _hold_ me, Charley. Please…” John breathed, craning his neck so their noses could touch, could brush lightly. “And get me that butterscotch treat.”

“Oh sure, I’ll be your slave!”

Simon broke away into his laughing fit, before pouting all the way to the kitchen _. Desert,_ in every sense of the word, in his sights. He noted John heading back to the record player, hunting for the next single. _Münchener Freiheit’s_ ‘Herz Aus Glas’ fitting the mood, ever so perfectly.


End file.
